


Fantaisie Impromptu

by KingsAndThieves (TehLotteh)



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A lot slower burn than I originally intended, Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Lance/Allura, But that may all change, Inspired by ThePianoGuys, Lance is his wingman, M/M, No angst planned as yet, Self-Indulgent, Shiro is hopeless, Slow Burn, That might be just as hopeless
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-08-11 04:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7877194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehLotteh/pseuds/KingsAndThieves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Music has always been the pivotal centre around which Shiro's life revolves, and if he had to take a year out to tutor while he waits for his spot in his prime orchestra to open up, so be it. Surrounded by the classically trained musicians of the Galaxy Garrison Conservatoire, the dark haired street musician who haunts the piano in the square down the road shouldn't have caught his eye as much as he has. Armed with only a vision of a dark mullet and an impressive command of Chopin's repertoire, it shouldn't be too hard to track down the stranger who has him completely entranced.. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and welcome to my first Voltron fic! I fell deep into Sheith hell and I just couldn't resist.
> 
> First off - I am not a string player by any stretch of the imagination. Clarinet, saxophone, piano yes, but strings are not something I'm familiar with at all. Anything I write is based off what I know from my time playing in a handful of orchestras, but as everyone knows there's a certain rivalry between the wind and the string sections. As such, if there are any mistakes please, please let me know!
> 
> Secondly I can't promise an updating schedule - the second chapter is half written and I have a handful of key points I want to incorporate in later, but I will only be able to write as and when the mood takes me. I am aiming to get the next chapter up within in the week. Still if there's anything in particular you'd like to see in this fic, I'm always open to suggestions! Might help kickstart the muse into gear :D
> 
> Without any further ado, I hope you enjoy~

It started as all good love stories should, with a tepid cup of coffee and a ham and cheese bagel.

Takashi Shirogane was the sort of man who enjoyed the simple things in life. He liked the sound of rain on his window at night, pattering rhythmically as it soothed him off to sleep. He welcomed the jasmine-tinted smell of fresh bed linen, the way his sheets rustled as he slipped under them, the fabric delicately cool against warm skin and refreshingly comfortable as he settled. He adored the crunch of his breakfast toast, just brown enough to be crispy, with butter dribbling between the cracks and coating his tongue as he wolfed it down on his way to rehearsals.

Wednesday was also the one day of the week where he treated himself to a bento box from the sushi bar down the road. It was his reward to himself for getting through half of the week, a little pricier than his usual sandwiches filled with the night before's leftovers, and since it was his longest lunch break of the week he liked to amble down the high street while snacking on it, window shopping to his heart's content. The charity shop on the corner changed its displays every other week, and sometimes they sold small ornaments that he was more than happy to pick up. The money all went to good causes, after all, and he could always find space in his apartment for another porcelain dog. He was currently on the hunt for a Red Setter to join the current entourage on his mantelpiece, but he was in no real hurry. Life was too short to be impatient.

Sometimes he'd stop outside the library to peruse the shelves stacked full of recent arrivals, though he rarely strayed from his old, light-hearted fantasy favourites. He didn't read as much as he used to when he was a child, and he was often concerned that whatever new story he picked up would be a disappointment compared to his expectations and only put him off further. It didn't bother him that much that he tended to read the same things time and again. Each setting was like a second home to him, the words on the page painting as familiar a picture as the pale wallpaper surrounding him in his front room where he curled up.

Routine was just another of the simple things he came to love. The predictability of it all, of knowing exactly what to expect out of his day. Morning group work with his quartet from 8 til 12, lunch until 1:30, then free practice time in the allocated room until 4 before one-to-one sessions either with his own tutor (a much less frequent occurrence now that he had graduated) or with some of the first year students he had offered to mentor. Of course, these tutoring sessions could change times a lot, but he normally had a few days' advanced notice at the very least.

There had been no pre-emptive warning of the “Shop Closed” sign stuck to the inside of the door window of the sleek, black-rimmed door that stood between him and succulent heaven.

No explanation, nothing, just that for the first time in the three and a half years of living in this city, his favourite lunchtime shop was closed. On a Wednesday. It felt like betrayal. 52 weeks a year, three years and four months. That was 172 visits, minus a few for universal holidays and that one time he'd been down with the flu and unable to visit. It left him at a loss, really.

It wasn't like there were any other food shops in this part of town, either. It was situated on the outskirts of the town centre which suited him just fine, being between the Galaxy Conservatoire and his preferred haunts, but it did mean he was spoiled for choice when it came to settling on his replacement meal. He had no lunch with him since, well, it was a _Wednesday_ , and he wasn't particularly inclined to return back to his flat. (Wednesday may well have been sushi day, but it was also the day the cleaners attacked the communal stairway with a rather intimidating and single-minded determination back in the apartment. They didn't like being disturbed, as he found out in his first month of living there, and boy was that a mistake he wouldn't be making twice). The city centre itself was packed full of eateries, and he didn't much fancy the busier streets or anywhere that required him sitting down at a table. He knew that there was nothing wrong with being sat at a table for one but the waiting on being served just felt awkward to him, especially if he had nothing to do.

Which, well, today he didn't.

He'd left all his books and sheet music back in his practice room along with his cello. His phone was on the blink too so he couldn't exactly sit there and while away the time with whatever atrocious game he could convince it to play. He would really have to get around to ordering a new one at some point, but he'd just splashed out on some new sheet music for their quartet and that would always take priority for him. Personal affects took the back burner where music was involved.

Knowing he couldn't wait all lunchtime outside the store in the vain hope that it might magically open for him, he wasn't long turning on his heel and making his way along to the main streets where the masses would no doubt be gathering, hurrying about in a rush to do lunchtime chores or meet with friends the other side of town, inwardly (and outwardly) cursing those who got in their way a split second too long or cut them up in their predetermined paths.

Smiling to himself at the thought, Shiro wasn't long slowing his own, long pace down a fraction, digging hands into the pockets of his felt coat, the material just enough to keep the bite of the January air from nipping at his fingers. It was deathly cold come evening but in the short few hours where the sun was out he found it to be more of a pleasant chill, his breath barely visible with every step. Of course there were those who believed themselves to be trapped in a modern ice age, scurrying about under layers and layers of coats and scarves and over-large bobble hats, but all he needed was a popped up collar to keep the breeze from tickling at his nape.

Looking around he noticed that the Christmas decorations had only recently been taken down and it was clear the city was still struggling to fill the gaps left in their wake. He couldn't help but feel a strange emptiness in him when he thought that he might not see another such season here.

Joining the prestigious Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra had been his dream since he first picked up an instrument, sat on his father's lap and plonking away at the piano before him, chubby little fingers barely able to comprehend pressing more than one note at a time. Both his parents were musicians by trade, playing in the same localised amateur orchestra in the evenings and teaching young children their passions by day. His father was one of the greatest pianists he had ever had the fortune to meet, although the man had never really wanted to go into the performance side full time. He'd been pulled in to the amateur orchestra back at Tokyo whenever pieces were played that required a pianist since some of the members knew him from their children's lessons, and that was where, Shiro had been informed, his parents had first met.

Perhaps he romanticised music a little too much, but growing up in such a warm family where there was never a silent moment, seeing how deeply they loved each other and wished only to share their joys with those around them, how could he help it? Sure, it had taken him a little time to find the instrument which truly resonated with his soul, but by the time he'd picked up a cello at the age of nine, he knew it was where he belonged.

He could almost hear his father's playing in his head as he walked, nimbly sidestepping a handful of eager children chasing a ball down the street, the way he danced over the keys as he teased note after note from that good old upright they had in the back room. He'd loved sitting there and watching him play, the agility and finesse the man possessed while he'd play anything at Shiro's request.

He found himself humming along as he came to some sandwich bar, seemingly nothing special, but his stomach was rumbling and he'd already resigned himself to having to make do with second best after the disappointment of before.

The bell above the door rang once as he stepped in, with only one other person in the queue before him. It was a narrow and dimly lit shop, a counter along the left side crammed with a selection of fillings and cakes for whatever bread based meal he could desire. He noticed with a defeated sigh that the baguettes, the only thing that could have salvaged his rather unfortunate lunch break, looked to be too stale to be of any interest to him. If he were any other man he might have turned and walked out to continue his search elsewhere, but Shiro felt ridiculously rude doing so. His split second of opportunity passed him by as the serving girl turned to him with a bright smile, and he returned it with one of his own as he turned his gaze back to the fillings.

 _No wonder this place is so empty.._ _Most of this doesn't look edible, let alone appetising._

In the end he settled for what should be a safe enough option of ham and cheese, sandwiched between a bagel because what the hell, he was feeling adventurous. It had nothing to do with the fact that the sliced bread made the baguettes look like an exquisite delicacy, he assured himself, it was just that he fancied a change. Coupled with a paper coffee cup full of what he hoped would make up for the unimpressive meal he was about to consume, he handed over his money and was soon back on his way outside, finding it curious that the piano in his head hadn't stopped.

Or rather, it had, just as he thought it, and then it started up another tune. It was quiet, barely audible over the sounds of daily lives, but it was there. Curious.

Since the day was already shaping up to be as far from the ordinary as possible, he took a swig of the sadly-expected, less than stellar coffee that tasted more like dirt than beans, and took a left turn down the alley that lead to the quarter of town that he very rarely explored. It was just as quiet as the outskirts that he preferred to roam, but with fewer shops in his line of interest. There were a couple of benches there, at least, so if nothing else he could sit down to avoid spilling coffee down himself while swallowing the crumbs of broken dreams.

Maybe it was just him, or maybe his brain was using the music as a means to distract him from his soon-to-be lunch, but he could have sworn that the piano music was getting louder. Stepping out from the mouth of the alley into the small square, he could soon see the reason why.

He'd heard about the city's recent initiative to install free-to-use public pianos out and about, but he'd not really paid it much thought. It wasn't his main instrument to play, and if he did want to patter about on the keys, well, he had a whole corridor of practice rooms to choose from where he could hide his face away in embarrassment at the inevitable dodgy notes.

This culprit was nothing special, just a dark brown upright positioned out of the way of passers-by that appeared to have been lovingly attacked by the local graffiti artists. Shiro wryly had to note that he'd never before seen such a stylistic interpretation of that part of the male anatomy before, and in electric blue no less, but then again this was most certainly a day for firsts. From where he was slowly ambling away from the enclosed alleyway he was unable to see the person playing, but every now and then a mop of dark hair was visible moving above the top of the lid, some unruly tuft sticking out at a complete right angle compared to the rest and flopping about comically in the breeze.

The square itself seemed quiet enough, the pavement a mesh of cracked grey slabs with a couple of benches and an arrangement of pots that would no doubt look better when the spring flowers poked their heads out to brighten up the dreary surroundings. The bench closest to him was taken up by a pair of elderly ladies engaged in a rather animated conversation, but there was one further down that would give him the perfect view of the mysterious pianist. At this point the notes were skittering through the air, the right hand prancing about on the very upper register of the instrument, and Shiro felt pained at the tinny quality this poor instrument was emitting. It would sound so much better on a grand, or one of the concert pianos the conservatoire had locked away, but any one of those were worth far too much money to risk to the elements, both of the natural and social variety.

He kept the corner of his eye on the piano as he settled down in the bench, listening now as the left hand lead into a heavy waltz, notes weighted yet light at the same time, a proper staccato between them. The light and teasing tone of the piece gave way suddenly to a desperate few bars, a stark contrast to the delicate nature of the previous few minutes, and Shiro smiled slightly as he noticed the ending to Liszt's _La Campanella_ , something he knew one of his pupils was having to learn for some piano recital or another. Not a favourite tune of his, but he had to admit that this musician seemed talented enough to not stumble over the rather demanding fingerwork.

Raising the cardboard cup to his lips he took a slow drain, studying the male in question as he stretched his back out, not seeming to be in a hurry to leave. He had wondered if perhaps this was a first year from the conservatoire, out to get some practice while the other rooms were fully booked, but it didn't seem to be anyone he recognised from the hallways. A mullet like that wasn't easy to forget, after all, definitely not being a style many people could wear.

 _He certainly seems to pull it off well, though_ , he mused as he lowered his drink once more. Perhaps a touch slight in stature, his pale skin carried a rosy hue to the stranger's cheeks that most probably came from the winter air, and was certainly offset by the jet black of his thick hair. Shiro vaguely wondered how it was that he could see the keys through such a mane, his fringe coming well down to his nose, but he seemed to have been playing well enough even without the full use of his sight. His attire definitely wasn't what he would have associated with what seemed to be a classically trained musician, though it was eye-catching enough. Black skinny jeans hugged slender legs with black boots that tapped lightly on the pedals, a thick red and white leather jacket slung over his shoulders, resting loose and undone around his waist. Much like Shiro's own coat the collar was popped up to keep the wind out, and from his prime vantage position the cellist was pretty sure he could make out fingerless leather gloves that were mostly hidden beneath the wide cuffs of the jacket, digits flexing before diving in to play his next piece.

 _80's biker and Chopin are two things I never imagined I'd associate together_ , came the helpful thought as the rapid paced dancing of Opus. 66, _Fantaisie Impromptu,_ soon rang through the square. This boy, teen, whatever he was, enjoyed the more fleet-fingered pieces it seemed, although he was pleasantly surprised by the honey-soft tone of the second section, keys murmuring so delicately that he had to strain to hear them. The boy's head was bowed, body swaying slightly to the music, the long phrases that rose and fell without building, reminding Shiro of the trickling of a stream.

It was soothing, and achingly familiar.

His father always loved playing this piece for the challenging cross-rhythms, the sixteenths in the right hand contra-posing over the triplets in the left, calling it a test in mastery of technique and a joy to perfect. It gave him a pang of homesickness, a longing for the warmth of a fire as he and his mother curled up on the sofa together, listening to the notes seeping out from under the back room door.

He closed his eyes and leaned back against the bench, lunch momentarily forgotten, finding his fingers lazily tapping against his thighs in a mimicry of the melody he could hear. Playing the piano had never been a strong suit of his, especially not after a rather horrific traffic accident in his early youth left him with a need for a prosthetic joined to his right elbow. It wasn't too much of a hindrance, the technology having increased so much that it was almost fully functional, but he did find his fingers to be slower to respond than he would have liked, something that would have caused him some grief and inconvenience where the piano was involved. It was why he enjoyed the cello, or any other string instrument really. Although some expression was carried through the hand and wrist, the full arm was just as important, leaving the more nimble and challenging work to his fully functioning left side. He also preferred the versatile potential of his major, the idea that it worked equally well as a solo instrument or in a group, with different people working together to create something beautiful with intrinsically weaving parts. He wouldn't trade his little quartet group for the world, and sometimes the piano seemed.. Well, lonely, in a way. It played everyone's parts by itself. When involved with an orchestra it was usually the centrepiece, never a cog doing its part in the greater machine.

The piece had finished, and he hadn't even realised. Opening his eyes he flicked his gaze quickly towards the piano, a movement to his right catching his attention as the boy from before slipped silently away into the crowd, black satchel bag thrown lazily over one shoulder. Shiro remained where he sat a moment, curious to know what academy he attended, before turning his focus back to the untouched bagel in his lap. He barely hesitated before wrapping it back up in the paper bag it had come in and stuffed it in his pocket for later, downing the rest of the coffee and chucking the cup in the bin beside him before getting to his feet, unable to resist the pull as he made to follow the direction this stranger had gone in although, since today was turning out to really not be his day, he'd lost sight of him almost immediately.

Steps slowed to a halt and hands moved back to their previous position resting in his pockets, a slight smile playing on his face as he watched the people carry on about their day, completely oblivious to the events that had just transpired in that dingy little square behind him.

But wasn't that the joy in music?

It was everywhere, in the places you least expected to find it, and it meant something different to every person it touched, even if they weren't aware of it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shiro stop staring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much for "I'll have the update done soon". That's what happens when you move countries for your final year of uni, then suddenly remember you have two cosplays to get done within two weeks.. (Shiro and Keith were both finished on time and did well in the competition, so I'm content on that front :3). I've been itching to get back to that, and I just wanted to say a huge thank you to the lovely comments on the first chapter <3 I get a bit shy about replying sometimes but please know I really appreciate the support and I'm so glad to hear that you're enjoying it so far.
> 
> I haven't proof-read this yet but I really wanted to get this chapter up after such a long break. It's late, I have class in the morning and I'm dying of a headcold, and I'm pretty sure my writing style has changed somewhat, but I'll probably get to going through the writing tomorrow after uni. I hope it doesn't read too weirdly, and please enjoy!
> 
> [[Also edited the first chapter to fix the nature of Shiro's arm to a prosthetic, although it's only a sentence so not much has changed.]]

_The inexpressible depth of music, so easy to understand and yet so inexplicable, is due to the fact that it reproduces all the emotions of our innermost being, but entirely without reality and remote from its pain._

He paused in his reading, gaze flicking up over the rim of his reading glasses, and watched as the dark-haired pianist rolled his shoulders back where he sat, reaching up to rub at the side of his neck with his head tilted to the side in a half stretch. No wonder, seeing the hunched position he'd adopted while playing that last piece, no doubt in some attempt to convince his fingers to dance with feather-light touches over the keys. It was giving Shiro cramp just watching, and he could imagine Matt having an absolute fit if he bore witness. Matt always had been an absolute stickler for posture, but he was quite rigid when he played piano himself. The thought brought a smile to Shiro's face, no matter how wistful.

The two had met during their first year at the Conservatoire, when soloists begged every pianist they could find to accompany them for their recitals in the hope that one would be willing to take time of their own busy rehearsal schedules to help. Matthew Holt had had the misfortune to refuse Shiro's request just as the former's tutor was walking past, resulting in a light scolding and a reminder that 'his father would surely not be pleased to hear him turning down such an opportunity'. Samuel Holt was a household name within the Academy, once an internationally renowned performer both as a soloist and an accompanist, and he lectured at the Conservatoire from time to time while highlighting the values of co-operation and collaboration.

_“_ _Music is, at its core, a social concept. It is a language, one that is understood by all who possess the faculties. Even while talking to ourselves we are communicating thoughts, ideas.”_

Still, Shiro had felt bad for ending up accidentally forcing the young musician into his assistance and paid him for his trouble in cups of Starbucks' coffee prior to every early morning practice session, and the two of them had quickly become firm friends, working together as partners ever since.

Well, up until this year, but Matt was off doing teacher training out of town, and he hadn't had chance to get in touch excepting a brief catch-up in the local café over Christmas break. Shiro had to admit that he greatly missed his sarcastic streak and penchant for getting easily wound up over the slightest things, but that's what friends were for, right? They never said anything to each other in spite, only with the aim to embarrass, and it was that easy camaraderie that he'd really struggled with living without since the start of the academic season.

He smiled slightly as he saw the stranger dive back in to his playing, though by the looks of his posture he was in for another driving pace in place of a slower piece. Sure enough his left hand was soon sweeping up and down with what he could only describe as finger acrobatics, little finger stretching impossibly across over his thumb, while his right hand marked out a sharp and refined tune with just a hint of the minor tone further up. In the four times he'd come to witness him playing (Friday and Monday following that first Wednesday, although he had come to check every single day. He was beginning to assume that the three days a week thing might just be his routine), he'd not once seen him stray from classical works. A bit of Beethoven here, some Bach there, even the occasional Mozart, but he seemed to far prefer the works of Chopin and Liszt. In fact, unless he were very much mistaken, Shiro was fairly certain that this current piece was one of Chopin's, although he didn't know it by name.

He wasn't quite sure what it was that drew him out to this place each time, but he'd found his bench consistently free without fail, and had started bringing his own lunch with him and a book to read while he sat and listened. His meal this time took the form of some meaty soup in a Thermos whose label he hadn't bothered to read that morning, and he took a good long sip from the now lukewarm flask while he turned to the next page in his book, eyes roaming over the script. _Musicophilia_ was a book that Matt had recommended he read some time ago and, really, it was turning out to be extremely fascinating. A part of him regretted not picking it up sooner, but better late than never.

_Music expresses only the quintessence of life and of its events, never these themselves._

So maybe originally he'd only brought the book along to make it look like he was doing something other than listening to this young man play, but it was a much better read than originally anticipated. He'd have to make a note to recommend it to his parents when he called them at the weekend, because it definitely struck him as something they would enjoy reading. Maybe he'd tell his quartet to read it too – but then again, they did have a fair amount on their plate already, what with adjusting to the heavy workload of the academy. Ah well. He'd see how it went.

Still, as interesting as this book was, it didn't help to solve his mental dilemma regarding whether or not he wanted to try and approach this young pianist. A large part of him wanted to know if he was a student at the Conservatoire, and if he wasn't, why not? He was fairly certain that he would have easily gotten a bursary or even a scholarship if he'd applied, but maybe that just wasn't for him. Perhaps he had a tutor who taught there? Maybe another fellow student? He'd messaged Matt over the weekend to see if he knew whether or not any of their fellow graduates were tutoring cute young guys with dark mullets, but he was yet to receive a response. He wasn't even sure why he wanted to know so badly. A conversation starter perhaps, a reassurance that if he approached him it wouldn't just end in awkward silence while neither of them had anything to say. Even mutually complaining about Iverson's draconic teaching methods would be better than nothing.

“Shiro!”

He almost jumped out of his skin at the voice in his ear, narrowly avoiding spilling soup all over himself, and whirled round to face the culprit with a warm yet playfully scolding look on his face. “I don't suppose you could have approached me from the front like a normal person?”

A light laugh and a toss of glossy white hair and his fellow graduate student came to take a seat next to him, elegantly swinging over the arm of the bench before sliding into place. Like him, Allura had come a long way to study abroad, although she'd always been a bit vague about where it was exactly that she came from. Supposedly her father was a dignitary for some high up political union that she couldn't openly discuss, but it meant that she travelled. A lot. When she hit adulthood she decided that she'd had enough and wanted to settle, at least for a time, while also pursuing her passion of music. They'd met as first year international students and consequently graduated at the same time but, like him, she hadn't left the area, instead choosing to help coach the younger students. He was fairly certain that after a trial period she would get installed as a permanent instructor, but for now both were scraping by on bursaries and free meals when a pupil was feeling particularly grateful.

Ever a lover of her pastel colours, she was wearing a long winter coat in the most adorable baby blue he had seen, with a pink fur-trimmed hood and matching scarf and mittens. She rarely wore a hat, her exuberant mane normally enough to keep her head warm. He still wasn't sure how she managed to almost never have visible roots while her hair still remained in impeccable condition. He and Matt used to joke that she must have made a deal with some fae creature while she was living in the UK that helped her look utterly flawless all the time.

She kept asking if he'd let her dye his fringe. He wasn't sure how much longer he could resist.

Not that she was being pushy, but a part of him wanted some little change in his life, something to make him stand out, to say “yes, this is me”. He knew part of it was being stuck in this rut and waiting for the next chapter of his life to start but, well, this was as good a time as any to push his own boundaries.

He slipped his bookmark in to the page he was reading (because dog-eared paper was one of his pet hates and he immediately distrusted anyone who folded the corners of books as a result) and placed it into his bag at his feet, resting an arm easily on the back of the bench so he could turn to face her properly.

“I wasn't expecting to see you out in this neck of the woods,” he commented, and she raised a delicate eyebrow at him in response.

“I could say the same for you. You've not been haunting the practice rooms of a lunchtime recently. Is this where you've been hiding out?”

He nodded, gesturing down to his bag and lifting the flask up for another sip of his soup. “I wanted to get out and about a bit, get some space.”

That, at least, she understood well. He knew most people saw Allura as somewhat of a social butterfly, but she appreciated peace and quiet as much as he did. He knew she especially liked gardens and wildlife, and in the spring she could often be found curled up under a tree in the park not far from the music buildings with her nose in a good book. She was a lover of the classics, as she stated, but he'd quickly discovered that it wasn't restricted to just the ancient epics. She was also a sucker for a good bit of Jane Austen from time to time, and she'd shown him pictures of the great houses and mansions she had visited during her stay in England.

There was poetry in those days, she often said, a beauty and delicacy we often overlook in our generation.

Sneaking a glance to the mysterious pianist across the square, he was pretty sure he understood a bit more of what she meant.

They chatted briefly about nothing in particular, and he was forced to return his full attention to her as they caught up for the first time in a handful of weeks. Yes, his parents had had a good Christmas, even if he didn't get chance to join them in person. Yes, they'd had a meal together over Skype. No, he hadn't heard from Matt. No, he didn't like that piece by Prokofiev, no he wasn't going to change his repertoire, yes he'd gotten the hall booked for their open-door performance evening.

In turn he queried her on little things, whether she enjoyed getting to spend time with her “Uncle” Coran (who she assured him was coming to visit them for the concert, just as soon as his current work was finished), how her new choral group was going, if she still wanted to come to Japan with him the next summer when he went back to visit his family.

It was when they got onto the topic of her repertoire for the open-door recital that he noticed a slight change in her demeanour, posture a little straighter and eyes more engaged, even if she chewed almost nervously at the corner of her mouth. “Actually, about that,” she started, fiddling with the loop on the end of her mitten as she hooked it over the securing button and off again, on and off. “A couple of the pieces I want to do require a fiddle. I don't suppose one of your students would be up to it?”

And by “students” he knew she meant one of two. He didn't exactly teach many violinists, and the only two he did teach were part of his small quartet group. Why she was asking him specifically when she knew others who could play the part set off minor alarm bells in his head. Hunk wouldn't do it, he was almost 100% certain, because as talented as the young man was he was nervous of anything outside of his comfort zone. Knowing Allura's preference for fast-paced Celtic jigs and Hunk's determination to literally play second fiddle to his friend, that was a combination that wouldn't go ahead. Lance though? Headstrong, exuberant and downright talented Lance? He hadn't realised Allura might reciprocate the other man's interest in her.

“I'm actually meeting up with them tonight, so I can ask them for you.”

Her face lit up at that and she leaned in to hug him tightly, a gesture he returned comfortably as he pulled her close. He knew she would get him out of a pickle if he ever needed someone to fill in a gap, so he didn't mind doing the same for her. He would just have to make sure his fellow musician's libido didn't ruin any chance that he and Allura had at working together. It would be an excellent learning experience for him if he could temper himself.

She pulled back after a moment and grabbed his hands to pull him up, Shiro silently thanking the fact that he was in the habit of screwing the top on his Thermos whenever he wasn't using it so the act of standing up suddenly _didn't_ result in spilling it everywhere. “Come on,” she beamed, that youthful light in her bright blue eyes infectious and bringing a soft smile to his own face, “I know for a fact you've got lessons soon, we may as well walk back together!” He couldn't deny that she had a point and the two were soon joking and laughing as he bent to pick his bag up, completely unaware of the dark violet gaze watching him from across the way, their owner momentarily forgotten.

 

 

“Allura asked _what?!_ ”

Shiro couldn't help but cringe slightly at the excited squeal right next to his left ear as his most excitable pupil leaned in close, kneeling up higher and searching every inch of the elder male's face for any sign that he was pulling his leg. His gangly build and long limbs sometimes made Shiro think of a spider, and in that moment he was sure his opinion was valid. Only Lance could somehow go from legs crossed on the sofa next to him to all but straddling him in the blink of an eye, and he knew extracting him was going to take a few moments, like a game of Jenga. Actually doing anything with the Cuban male was comparable to that childhood game, but that was one of the things that he found endearing. He was just so turned on all the time, always ready to go, always eager to push further and try new things, and his passion and love knew no bounds. If he were to assign him a dog breed, he was a Labrador through and through. Big, loveable, a heart of gold and loyal to a fault.

Or perhaps that title belonged to Hunk who looked desperate to move to help him out, but was stuck holding a number of new and used strings for their youngest member, Pidge, who was in the process of restringing her viola.

They were currently in the apartment that Hunk and Lance shared, meeting up as they did at least once a month for a night of terrible horror movies and greasy take-away. It wasn't a bad sized place, and for two first years it was remarkably well kept. It was possible to see influences of both teens around the room, if you knew where to look; the bottom half of the bookshelf was filled to the brim with Hunk's cookbooks from various types of cuisines, sticky notes haphazardly poking out the top and side to mark pages that he found particularly interesting. Shiro was certain that there was some code to the colouring, but he didn't know what it was. Perhaps the green-yellow-red was the usual scale of love-meh-hate, or maybe it was graded on level of spice, or maybe the blue labels were ones Lance enjoyed or disliked. Hunk's presence was most strongly felt in the kitchen where everything was in complete order, racks full of spices filling every spare gap and the sides always sparkling clean.

Lance's interests seemed to lie more with sewing, it seemed, which was a hobby he never would have guessed the other possessed upon first meeting him. He'd explained that being surrounded by four younger siblings who were as rambunctious as he, if not more so, it had been essential to at least learn how to patch up holes or sew buttons back on. He'd truly taken an interest when he realised that he didn't want the kids to be forced to wear hand-me-downs when a full new wardrobe was too expensive to buy for them, so he'd started learning to make jumpers and dresses and anything else they wanted. It seemed he'd taken to trying to make things for himself and Hunk as well, though at that time the mannequin in the bay window was set up to far smaller size, and the green fabric pinned meticulously to it suggested a gift for Pidge in the near future.

“She asked if either you or Hunk,” and he made sure to emphasise that this was an _open_ offer, “Would be interested in working with her for a few pieces for the March show.” Of course Lance's eyes only grew wider, as did his grin, and he eventually sat back on his heels before jabbing at his own chest with his thumb in pride.

“Well obviously she's heard of the renown of the great and wonderful McClain and wanted a chance to experience it for herself. Who can blame her?” They all knew that the arrogance was a show, but they never confronted him about it. He did have the talent to back it up, but for the most part he talked the talk to give the room some life, and they all appreciated it. If he really was as cocky as he pretended he wouldn't defer every decision to Shiro as he did.

“Did you find out who your mystery man is, Shiro?”

And just like that, Pidge, in her smug and sly way, managed to shift the attention into an entirely different direction. Shiro felt the telltale warmth of a blush seep up his neck at the sudden feeling of two pairs of eyes on him, (the instigator was keeping hers firmly on her work, the little minx), and hurried out a quick denial of having any idea what she was going on about. Well, stammered was probably more accurate there. Well done Takashi, nailed it. That shit-eating grin came over Lance's face once more as he untangled his legs from Shiro's, but he didn't further the distance between them in the slightest. On the contrary, he was soon leaning in and resting one elbow on the broader male's shoulder, chin resting lightly on a closed fist with a melodramatic chuckle.

“Well, well, well,” he cooed, thriving on every second that Shiro deliberately stared at the patch of coffee stain on the carpet in the corner. “A mystery man, is it? Big, stoic Shiro finally found someone who caught his eye?”

“It's not like that-”

“Hah! Denial! Pidge, what's the gossip?” His blue gaze didn't leave his victim for even a second, watching in fascination as the red tint to his skin crept ever higher, now dusting over his cheeks pretty evenly. Shiro wasn't even sure why he was embarrassed. He didn't _like_ the guy, did he? He wanted to know who he was, wanted to talk to him, and he was cute, sure.. But that was all it was. He was just embarrassed at being caught. Yes, that was definitely what it was.

“Matt says he's been making inquiries.” So Matt had time to pass the gossip on to his sister, but not to respond to his best friend.. He was getting salt in his coffee next time they met up, he swore. He hadn't realised the teasing game was still ongoing while they were living apart. “Some street musician with a mullet caught his eye. Must be bad for him to have skipped his favourite restaurant today.”

He'd long given up trying to work out where Pidge got her intel, or how she knew what she did. She had dirt on everyone, but she never missed classes either. Maybe she and Allura were in cahoots, or they'd both sold their souls to some mythical creature for powers beyond mortal control. Perhaps it was some female cult.. Or maybe it was just a capability of the female species that he would never be able to understand. He had to admit, he was impressed. Scared, but impressed.

Her comment did, however, draw an incredulous screech out of the guy right next to his ear, yet again, and he couldn't help but wince at it. “Shiro how can you sit there and say it's not like that?! You digging up dirt on people? Skipping out on your lunchtime traditions? This guy is ruining your whole routine and you think that isn't a big deal?!”

It was there that Hunk decided to step in, turning his attention from staring at Pidge in curiosity to raise an eyebrow at his housemate. “Did you even remember to click confirm on the order?” It was a cheap tactic to try and divert the attention away from Shiro, but he appreciated the effort nonetheless. He didn't have answers to the questions they were no doubt going to ask, and he wasn't sure he had the energy to put up with an interrogation at that point. There was a moment where silence fell and Lance blinked slowly, bringing his thoughts away from his current point of interest and back to the more pressing matter of food before he quickly scrabbled over the opposite arm of the couch to reach down to the floor, leg kicking out for balance and nearly taking Shiro out in the process. He tilted the laptop back a moment before hoisting it up with a grunt and settling it on his lap, though soon gave a triumphant fist pump and a little yell of victory.

“Yeah! Delivery should be here in about fifteen. Shall I stick the start of a movie on?”

Soon enough the lights were dimmed and Pidge and Hunk had placed the restrung viola back in its case and in the corner by the door, sat on one sofa while Lance and Shiro took the other. Or rather, Lance took most of it. He seemed to be in the habit of stretching his legs out as much as he could (although he complained that long legs did not deserve to be cramped up all the time, that most desks and chairs were heightist for making him bend them so much), and Shiro, being of a similar height and understanding his pain really couldn't find it in him to complain. If Lance wanted to lie on his back with his head on the floor and his ankles over the back of the sofa, who was he to say otherwise? It did, however, mean that when the doorbell rang it was Shiro who was the only one in a position to actually go and answer it. Lance could, technically, but he'd forgotten just where he'd been lying and ended up cracking the front of his head against the edge of the coffee table in front of them, swearing like a sailor as he squirmed around and massaged it in irritation.

Pidge and Hunk, while closest to the door, were otherwise occupied. It had turned out that Hunk had a phobia of clowns which, with hindsight, he probably should have mentioned before they started watching _Killer Klowns from Outer Space_ , and Pidge was currently in use as a human teddy bear to help ground him. Hitting pause as he stood he made quick steps to the living room door and slipped out into the hallway, the kitchen door stationed directly opposite and left ajar where drinks and plates were already waiting for them. He leaned forward to pull the handle down and tug the door open, his usual warm and welcoming smile on his face as he greeted the delivery person with a pleasant “Good evening--”

Red jacket. Black hair. Purple eyes.

Shiro's brain stopped working. Or rather, it hiccoughed, but his mouth kept going and let some incoherent drivel leave him instead. The youth infront of him raised an eyebrow but politely said nothing about it, flicking his gaze down to the name scribbled on the lid of the top box, before looking back up to his customer. “McClain? One Meat Feast, one Pepparoni and one Hawaiian with a side of spicy wedges?”

“THAT'S ME!” came the owner of the name from the living room, stumbling out and looking a little in disarray with his shirt all crumpled from how he'd been lying down, gravity having done a number on his short hair and leaving it fluffed up. He paused mid-step as he took in the sight before him, Shiro stood with a dumbstruck expression on his face while a conventionally attractive guy with – ooh, surprise surprise, a nice little black mullet do – was left holding out the boxes of their order with a slightly perturbed expression on his face. He grinned and clapped Shiro once on the shoulder, eliciting a jolt of surprise as he pulled the other back into the realm of conscious thought, and jerked a thumb towards the kitchen. “You get the boxes, buddy, let me just get the money, mm'kay?”

The taller male wasn't left with a chance to argue as his friend all but skipped off into the kitchen, and he gave the delivery boy a smile that felt all too awkward and forced as he took the offered boxes, knowing the other's arm must have been getting tired holding them out at that angle for so long. His motion was slow, his attention on taking in every detail now he was up closer to him. His eyes were a rare colour, and although he doubted what his own eyes were telling him they seemed to be a very peculiar shade of violet, some obscure genetic throwback he reckoned. His face was delicate, but he had a definite case of the doe-eyes, wide and curved where they sat half-obscured by his hair, with thick, dark lashes. Much like himself he appeared to be of at least part oriental descent, but the smattering of freckles high on his cheekbones suggested he was of mixed race. Lips were thin and slightly pursed, eyebrows set in a near permanent scowl, but he'd seen them raise and soften when the music had him in its grasp.

Maybe he was just tense because a customer was eyeing him up. Shiro wondered if that was an odd occurrence. It certainly wasn't polite of him, in any case.

He was sure that given a few more seconds he might have been able to force out some full word or maybe even a sentence, but he was spared the potential embarrassment by Lance returning with a spring in his step, handing the stranger a wad of notes with a cheery grin on his face and a childish wave. “Thank you so much for your services! Keep the change, consider it a thanks, yeah? Toodles!”

He barely gave the other youth a time to take it all in before he shut the door and dragged Shiro straight into the kitchen, almost having to take the boxes from him to get his brain back into gear. When he'd unloaded the first pizza onto one of the waiting white plates and turned to see his mentor still standing, staring at the box in his hands, he rested a palm on his cocked hip and tsked in the back of his throat. “You, my friend, have got it bad. I've never even seen you lock up in front of someone before,” he sighed, watching as Shiro groaned quietly. “And a guy you, what, 'have no interest in'? De Nile is not just a river in Egypt, you know.”

“I know.” He opened the box and started to shimmy the pizza out onto the waiting plate, because really, he felt like a mess of a human being right then and he wanted to be able to say he could at least do one thing by himself, even if that was moving a large, flat object from one surface to another. Lance soon took pity on him and helped bring the food in to the living room, putting them down on the coffee table so everyone was free to help themselves now that Hunk had freed Pidge from his grasp, and before too long they were all curled back up with plates heaped full of junk as they watched the clowns in tacky, baggy jumpsuits and spiked hair that looked like it was made out of wool turn innocent human beings into balls of cotton candy.

(“And that,” Hunk whined, “Is the most terrifying fate of all. They could at least have gone for something with a bit more taste.”)

At some point Lance had ended up with his legs stretched out over Shiro's lap, the elder man's arm resting over his ankles, and as the credits started rolling the younger let out a curious hum, jiggling his foot a little with his arms folded under his head, staring at the ceiling in thought.

“Hey, Shiro, does your phone number end 453 or 354?”

He blinked as he looked to him, not following where that question came from. “453.” A pause. “Why?”

“Oh, good,” he responded, seeming genuinely relieved for a moment. “For a second there I thought I'd slipped your crush the wrong number.”

Shiro shot to his feet so quickly that Lance rolled off and onto the floor, his head meeting the corner of the table for a second time that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you all dying over the season two trailer too? I cry. I cry so much.
> 
> (Also I thoroughly recommend that you give Musicophilia a try if you're looking for an interesting read. I studied it back when I wanted to pursue a degree in music therapy, and some of the topics are incredibly fascinating).


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for the lovely comments :D I'm really glad you're enjoying this so far!
> 
> Just a brief note on ages before I get too much further. As a recent graduate I have Shiro at roughly 22-23, assuming he probably took a year out somewhere either before or in the middle of his studies. Keith, Lance and Hunk are all around 18-19, and for this Pidge is 15-16. With the assumption that I won't have somewhere eloquent to slip it in, Pidge isn't a student at this conservatoire, but rather is taking additional classes and group sessions with them because Matt asked Shiro to take her under his wing while he's away, and with their father sometimes working there it all worked out well enough.
> 
> (Also, usual drill, I briefly proof-read it but I'll go over it more thoroughly after I've slept~)

When asked in an interview with his tutor a few weeks before graduating what his strengths and weaknesses were, Shiro was fairly certain he had himself down. For one thing, he was conscious of his own limitations. That was something he considered a strength. He knew how far he could push himself, and he knew when it was better to ask someone else to take the job. He'd given the example of handiwork round the house. He had basic knowledge of electronics – he could tinker with fuses, bulbs, he'd fixed the fridge once or twice when things had all gone extremely pear-shaped. He couldn't, on the other hand, fix a leak under the sink to save his life. Water pressure was his enemy. But none of that meant that he would dive in head-first to rewire part of the kitchen on a whim. He could possibly do it – he knew the theory, yes – but he also ran the risk of making everything a whole lot worse.

He was all for the two-steps forward, one-step back policy, but there was a time and a place for that.

Another strength? He was a clear-thinker. He liked to plan ahead. He was organised. He liked things to have their own place, their own purpose. He was methodical.

Weaknesses?

He was too cautious.

He could never put himself before another, something he'd been warned could jeopardise his career as a performer if he didn't take care. He would always stop to help others rather than take advantage of their misfortune to climb up higher.

He suffered easily from loneliness. He lacked self-confidence, despite the fact that he was an excellent leader. He knew why that was, though. When making decisions that involved other people, they took priority. When making decisions that concerned himself and him alone, he worried that he was coming across as too confident.

He saw the best in others, and the worst in himself.

And what, the tutor had asked him, was his core? What was his essence, the thing that made him different from the others? If he had to sum himself up in one word, what would he say?

_Patience_.

And really, until that very moment, he'd foolishly believed himself when he'd said that.

It had been sixteen hours and fourteen minutes since they'd had the pizza delivered, and Shiro's dodgy old phone had only buzzed twice, once with a text from Lance that was simply some smirking emoji wearing sunglasses and a series of question marks, and once with a notification to tell him that that game he'd downloaded one semi-drunken night missed him and wanted him to play it again.

Truth be told, he would have played it more frequently, but for the past month and a bit every time he'd tried to open it it crashed his whole phone and forced him to wait ten minutes while it rebooted.

Still, he wasn't sure what he had been expecting, or whether or not he was disappointed. There was a sinking in his gut, an empty feeling to his smile, but did it really matter if nothing came from this? Not really. Still though, how cheesy would they have been, the music graduate and the pizza boy?

Oh god. Had he just made an internal pun?

Lance, he decided, was a _very_ bad influence.

Speaking of which, he was still unsure on how he'd felt on that matter, too. He knew he'd only been trying to help out a friend, but slipping someone his number like that seemed so.. Well, the complete opposite of Shiro. As he'd argued with himself while brushing his teeth that morning, though, if Lance hadn't taken a move, would he ever have done so himself? He kept telling himself that one week he would approach him, try to have a conversation, and although he hadn't exactly been going that long, deep down he knew he wouldn't have.

He liked routine. Sitting and listening and leaving without a word was a routine in itself.

Be that as it may, the silence was _killing_ him. Had the stranger seen his note? Had he written him off as a weirdo and told his manager never to send him to deliver pizzas to anyone under the name Shirogane ever again? Had he memorised Shiro's face and made a mental promise to never, ever step foot near him again?

It was too much to hope that maybe there was a nervous apprehension on both sides of the party, it really was.

Okay, so maybe he did want the other to text him. Maybe, just maybe, he could admit to himself that he was interested.

Maybe he could also admit to himself that he was being petulantly impatient as he pressed the lock button on his phone for the ninth time that practice session.

Their little quartet had met up to rehearse after a short lunch break, and although Shiro could play his part in his sleep, that didn't give him any excuse to set such a bad example by playing on his phone. Sure, their practice sessions were always rather lax, but they played hard and they worked hard. They may well lounge around chatting for the first half, but when they knuckled down to it they all left with sore wrists and irritating earworms buried deep in their brain. He was pretty certain he'd been humming this particular piece without noticing, and he felt bad for that.

Saint-Saëns wasn't a bad composer, though, and he did enjoy it. They were working on his second string quartet, Opus 153, and the Allegro did have some lovely moments where each part wove in and out with each other, dancing on each other's toes, so to speak, before scurrying back to their own melody, each one of them snipping and pinching and sharing. He did get some nice scaling riffs too, and it was in quartets like this where he loved being able to hear his instrument's deep and rich tone in contrast to the higher and sharper voices of the other three. Although it had been an expensive buy, his Knilling cello had seen him through thick and thin with barely a falter, and when a sharp cough from Lance reminded him that he had to play in the next bar when his cadenza would finish, he only fumbled slightly before drawing his bow along it in a slow motion.

They made it through the rest of the piece without a hitch, but when Shiro automatically moved to check his phone once more, Pidge tutted loudly, tapping her chin with the tip of her bow as a disgruntled teacher would with a pen. “I thought we weren't allowed phones in the classroom?”

“Not a student,” came his distracted reply, though he sighed heavily and locked the screen once more, chucking it vaguely behind him with a silent prayer for it to land in his open case and not on the laminate floor instead. The lack of a crack suggested his prayer had been answered. Thank heavens. He really couldn't afford a new one that soon. “I'm sorry, I'm really letting you guys down today.”

“Hey,” she responded with a softer voice, a smile playing on the edge of her mouth. He could tell she was uncertain, heck, they all seemed to be to an extent. They spent time with each other almost every single day, had done for the past four months, and none of them had seen Shiro like this. “Just because he hasn't texted you yet, it doesn't mean that he won't. Not that Lance didn't potentially fuck things right up--”

“ _Oi!_ ”

“-But maybe he's just a bit shy. I mean, if you were in his position, what would you do?”

She did make a good point, actually. Shiro was absolutely atrocious at picking up on or responding to any sort of suggestive clues, a fact that amused his companions to no end. Matt had always gotten a huge kick out of it whenever they went to a club or a bar in the evenings, and Shiro would just obliviously and politely work his way through any and every conversation. It wouldn't be until they got back in the taxi afterwards that his friend would point out that someone had been trying to come onto him.

If their positions were reversed, if he were the stranger and he'd been slipped a phone number by a customer, what would he do? Even if he were attracted to them himself, would he have the confidence to initiate a conversation?

His silent response to Pidge's question was answer enough, really.

“What do I do?” He felt weird as the eldest and having to seek advice on this sort of thing from what were essentially his pupils, but they were also some of his closest friends. He only really had Allura otherwise, and he hadn't gotten round to telling her about this mess he was in. She had enough on her plate with all her classes, anyway. “I mean, I would like to get to know him, even if just on a completely platonic front.”

“Why not just try approaching him next time you see him in the city?” Hunk asked, a warm and comforting smile on his face. He always had this aura of reassurance, even if he was nervous himself. He was quiet and unassuming most of the time, but he strove to do the best for his friends and the ones he held dear would do anything for him in turn. “If Lance's stunt has put him on edge, that way you can explain what happened to him, and break the ice at the same time.”

It did make sense, at least, and Lance and Pidge's mutual hums of agreement helped too. Talking like a normal person was something he could at least pretend to do. Sure, that previous evening he'd completely locked up before spewing some verbose trash at him, but he'd been caught unawares. He hadn't expected to open the door to end up face to face with the guy he'd been thinking about. That kind of fate wasn't something Shiro was used to in the slightest.

If he went with the intention of talking, with a rehearsed few opening lines at the very least, he couldn't mess it up. Right?

Normal people. Normal conversation. Compliment his playing, ask where he learned, something alone those lines. Everything would be completely hunky-dory.

“Thanks, guys,” he smiled warmly, feeling a little more reassured now that he had a plan of action. The smiles that lit up their faces in turn melted his heart. They all cared for each other so much, and he knew he'd been causing them grief with his moping all afternoon. “I'll go to the square tomorrow and see if he wants to chat or anything. At least then we'll know for certain, right?” A chorus of agreement sounded and he sat up a little straighter, rubbing his thumb against the back of the neck of his instrument for a moment. “With that little blip out the system, how about we take it from Lance's cadenza once more?”

 

* * *

 

He couldn't do this.

Walking towards his habitual bench during his lunch break the following day felt more like the slow trudge to the executioner's block than the journey towards potentially making a new friend. He'd busied himself all morning by intensively working on his solo repertoire, but that didn't help all that much once he left the room and shrugged his coat on. He didn't even have his flask of soup with him this time, because the nerves that gnawed away at his gut left him feeling far too delicate to stomach anything. He'd managed to force down a glass of juice that morning, but barely. Fortunately he was a man who was well used to looking fully in control on the outside even when he was dying internally.

Around him the street was bustling as usual, people enjoying their last lunch-break of the week before being able to settle down in their warm houses for the weekend. Some people who worked half days on Fridays made their way down the paths with an extra spring to their step, chatting away and enjoying the few extra hours of freedom that their associates didn't. He even saw a bunch of young women gathered round a shop window, gushing excitedly and nudging one stood in the middle as they eyed up the latest displays in the wedding dress store. The blush on the blonde girl's face brought a smile to his face, pleased to see someone looking so pleased about what he could only hope was an event she would fondly remember for the rest of her life.

He raised his hands to his mouth and blew hot air on them, the metal not doing much for trying to warm up his fleshy, left hand, but he'd been an idiot and left his gloves back in his apartment. The cold didn't affect the prosthetic's performance, at least, but it was a shock to the system when he forgot about it and reached up to scratch the back of his neck, only to be greeted by an icy touch. He would have thought that with how long he'd had the appendage now he would have gotten used to it, but he wasn't that lucky. At the same time, though, it was always reassuring for him to realise how well he'd adjusted to it. The first year or so was so so hard, but there had been calibration issues, body image problems, trauma, and going through that on top of school stress and puberty had put a huge strain on him.

There had been offers to have it changed to a skin tone, but he'd kindly turned them down. It wasn't something he was ashamed of, and if openly displaying it could help anyone else in a similar situation come to terms with their own struggles, he would be more than willing to endure any strange looks that came with it.

There was one concert in his first year where he'd been part of a small group to go round some of the local schools, both as a demonstration and a lowkey attempt at recruiting potential students in the future, but at the very end a boy in his mid-teens had come up to him with red eyes, clearly on an emotional brink, and had just pulled the hem of his jeans up to reveal a similar sort of replacement for his shin and foot. Shiro hadn't known what to say, but neither had the boy, and in the end he just enveloped the smaller male in a tight hug and reassured him that he was no less a human for it.

Maybe that was another avenue he could try pursuing on this year in limbo. He wasn't particularly well known, but he had been a well-liked student and was a poster-boy graduate. He made a mental note to get in touch with the local hospital to ask for his contact details to be offered to any amputees that may want someone who could sympathise with them, someone to reassure them that things would improve, no matter how hard it got.

His pace slowed as he approached the last corner leading into the square, and he could feel his shoulders drop a little. He could easily talk to a room full of strangers with only a little psyching up, but the prospect of approaching this dark-haired oddity had him as nervous as before his first concert.

What was the worst that could happen?

The other male would walk away, or express that he didn't want to talk, and they'd go their separate ways.

Strictly speaking, he didn't have anything to lose except his pride, and that wasn't something Shiro was in the habit of clinging to tightly. He respected himself, yes, but he understood that there were going to be times in his life where things didn't go according to plan and one just had to accept them and move on.

On the flip side, if this talk went well, then he would have a new friend.

He hadn't realised he'd stopped walking until someone jostled him on their way past, and he murmured out a hurried apology, tucking in a little closer to the wall of the corner shop, digging his hands deeper inside his coat pockets. Deep breath in, deep breath out. _You can do this, Takashi_. Still, when would he be best to do this? He didn't want to interrupt him mid-piece, but he was also normally quick to disappear after he finished. Maybe he had to run to his work shift? In that case, though, there wouldn't be time to talk at the end.

Though.. Was he even playing? The air was eerily quiet, aside from the usual hubbub of people chatting away and the odd pigeon cooing from the rooftops.

Feeling a sudden knot of anxiety in his gut he stepped round the corner, eyes drawn immediately to the piano in the corner of the square – a piano that was, sadly, unoccupied. The lid was up, some dead leaves gathered up against the keys where the wind had carried them away, and it seemed to him that it hadn't been touched, at least not that day.

Sure, there may well be a perfectly normal explanation for why the stranger wasn't at the piano, but Shiro was a man of routines and he was there each Monday, Wednesday and Friday lunchtime so far. It could have been something so simple as him being sick and unable to come, or a work shift had changed, or he was meeting up with someone somewhere, but the only thought going round in Shiro's head was that he'd scared him off, made this an area he no longer felt comfortable coming to. Well, not that it was _technically_ his fault since Lance had been the instigator, but it was he who came and sat and listened in the first place, it was his phone number, his presence, his infatuation that had caused all this.

A glance round the area gave no further hints, and with a resigned sigh he stepped up to examine the piano properly, not having had the chance to do so yet. He'd always wanted to keep a respectful distance when it was in use, and on the days when his mysterious pianist wasn't playing, he'd carried on his way elsewhere. This square was quaint, it was small, it wasn't meant for silence.

He reached out with his right arm to gently brush the crisp leaves off the surface, trying not to let them crumble and leave a mess stuck between the keys, but the poor instrument was clearly not in the best-kept condition these days anyway. Left at the mercy of the elements, let alone at the mercy of the public, it was easy to see where it had been worn down by the cold and the rain. Parts of the wooden exterior were starting to split, with notches and splinters sticking out this way and that. It seemed someone had drawn on the middle two octaves with a Sharpie or something similar, labelling each key with its respective note to aid, presumably, with teaching another. He couldn't really consider that vandalism, though, it was common practice in most institutions for beginners, and it was beneficial. In a sense, even the engravings and scribbles done on the sides and the back weren't so much destroying property, but rather giving it character. This piano bore its own scars, its own stories, but that was what made it special. He would never do it himself, but if he thought of it in that particular sense it didn't annoy him like it otherwise would.

His ankle absent-mindedly hooked around the leg of the stool provided, chained to the floor so people wouldn't steal it, and dragged it in close as he settled down on the edge. It was nothing like the upright he practised on back in the Conservatoire, but then again it had been so long since he'd last played around on a piano. Almost all his time was devoted to his cello, either wooden or electric (a treat to himself for graduating the previous summer, and he was looking forward to exploring that side of performing with his quartet in the near future), and the keyboards were normally booked up for students majoring in it to rehearse on. He'd never played it particularly well, but he had to admit that he did miss it. There was something relaxing about it, something to enjoy about being able to play both melody and harmony by yourself.

He didn't have a huge repertoire that he could play by memory, and nothing extravagant at that, but what he did have was a small collection of video game tunes that he'd learnt to impress his cousins whenever they came to visit. Of course, his father could play to an exceptional standard (as well as anything almost on demand), but as the 'Oldest Cousin' anything Shiro could do for the younger members of his generation was automatically considered to have an essence of magic. Of course the Pokemon theme song was requested _a lot_ , but he didn't particularly want to start playing that out in the middle of the city, even if this was a less densely populated area.

In the end his fingers just moved of their own accord, something slow yet syncopated, nerdy yet sophisticated. He'd never played the Phoenix Wright games himself, didn't know what the music was a reference to, but one of his friends at school had taught himself to play it and Shiro had enjoyed it so much that he had gone home and begged his parents to help teach him how to play it as well. It reminded him of jazz, the stereotypical coffee house music he saw in films, but it was within his skill range and it didn't require much thought. Muscle memory took over while his left hand ran a series of chords, rich, warm, something to contrast the chill of the breeze that swept through where he sat. _The Fragrance of Dark Coffee_ was the type of piece he would quite like to hear in a mall as he walked through, something unobtrusive. It didn't explore much of the range of the piano, keeping fairly central, but it did play around with the beat. Slow and drawn out to vivace and light-fingered before slowing down once more, a teaser for the ear but nothing more.

He let himself zone out from the world around him, relaxing the muscles in his shoulder and leaning into the notes. He could feel his long fringe tickling the bridge of his nose as the wind nudged it, but it didn't get in his eyes so he ignored it for the most part. He paid little attention to the people slowing down as they passed him, pausing a moment to spare his playing a little appreciation before carrying on with their day. Foot moved with the pedal with only a little less grace than he would have liked, but the mechanism was stiff and he was out of practice, deciding that nobody would particularly care if he didn't dampen the notes where they should be, or sustain them elsewhere. It was interpretation, not performance, and just a little bit of fun after all.

The piece finished with a slow few chords in his left hand, drawn out as much as he dared while his right hand lightly moved up through a broken chord, rising and falling and rising and falling and delicately pressing down on the final key. There it was again, that tinny note caused by the poor quality of the worn-down instrument, and it wasn't a final note that he particularly enjoyed hearing, but that was on the least of his concerns when he suddenly felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

He fumbled a bit in his haste to dig it out of the back of his jeans, wondering if he was needed back at the school earlier than he thought, or if Allura wanted him to pick something up from town, but it wasn't a number he had saved into his contacts, and wasn't one he recognised from the office contacts or anything. He frowned and barely let out a breath, not allowing himself the opportunity to consider just who the sender could be, before tapping on the button to open up the message.

Well, tapping it three times, because that part of his screen was dodgy at the best of times and a trembling thumb was doing him no favours.

 

> From: Unknown [13:19]
> 
> I brought milk in case you prefer your coffee white.

 

What now?

He did a mental checklist, a sudden worry that he'd stood someone up for a café date or something, but Lance and Hunk had a tutor meeting that lunch break, and Allura was off with some of her other friends, and he and Pidge never met up for coffee because honestly, the idea of her on caffeine terrified him.

Had Matt gotten a new number? No, Matt knew how he liked his coffee, he didn't need to ask.. And he shouldn't be back in town for some time yet.

He stood and eased his way round the stool, eyes still firmly on his phone, though the sound of someone clearing their throat tore his attention away and up.

There, across the square on the bench he usually occupied, sat a carry-box with two cups of coffee and a scrawny, dark-haired youth in a red, leather jacket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any Saint-Saëns fans that I've inadvertently offended, I don't think that the bit I was trying to describe actually is a cadenza, but I'm not sure what to call it otherwise. I'll happily accept any corrections!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation might go better if at least one of them had the necessary social skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly I am so so sorry for this taking so long, but the past few weeks I've had family round, deadlines and then the big con down in London where I met the best Voltron peeps of all time. Still one extremely proud space dad, and I'm super glad we're keeping in touch too <3 Ily all so much.
> 
> Secondly I'm sorry that this chapter is a little shorter and rougher than usual, but the direction of this fic has changed in my absence so we gotta get this ship back under control. As per, not really proof read, but I wanted to get it out tonight because I don't know when I'll next get chance otherwise. Enjoy!

It was with hesitant steps that Shiro slowly made his way over to the bench, the stranger sat there looking to him with a mixed expression of bemusement and impatience. He was sat on the left hand side of the bench, half lounging with one arm draped over the back, his ankles crossed with his legs stretched out in front of him, but he was sure he could read a modicum of unease in his posture. Understandable, really, given that neither of them had had all that much interaction together and he had initiated a conversation with an elder male whose only real selling point was that he'd forgotten how to speak English while accepting a pizza delivery. Who knew what the nature of the following discussion was going to be?

Still, as he had to reassure himself, people didn't normally buy coffee for their stalker, did they? Unless the text and the two cups of coffee were all a hoax, and he was going to drink them both in front of him like some protest. That was the sort of thing Matt would do. Was this guy anything like Matt? Time would tell, he supposed.

The dark-haired boy was silent, eyes studying him carefully as he eventually took a seat the other side of the carrier. It was a little unnerving the way he barely blinked, but the lack of motion only seemed to emphasise quite how large and gorgeous his eyes were. They were easily the prettiest of his features, but that wasn't to say the rest of him was unappealing. In Shiro's mind it was quite the contrary, but he was hard pressed to recall the last time he'd been struck by such a piercing gaze. His expression was calculating and guarded, mimicking that taut quality of his posture, but he didn't shy away once they were sat together, so that was something good.

The silence, on the other hand, was a little less reassuring. Now sat face to face with the topic himself, Shiro found anything he'd planned to say had been thrown straight out the window. He'd anticipated being the one to approach first, to initiate, to apologise for everything that had happened, to explain that he had been an unwilling participant and that they could forget about it all and go their separate ways if that was what he wanted. He hadn't even considered that after almost two days without a word or sign from the pianist he would bridge the gap himself. He couldn't work out what it all meant, whether he should start up a conversation or wait for the other to begin talking. What if he got the wrong message and used the completely wrong tone? What if he just dug a really big hole and never stopped? What if he accidentally offended the other, or somehow ended up emotionally blackmailing him into talking to him?

Panicking like this wasn't something he was used to, and he felt uncomfortable and bulky in his large frame, like some giant playing in a kids' room, far too ungainly for this situation. Now that they were sat fairly near each other, he could see that the top of the youth's head barely grazed the square of his jaw, a size difference that hadn't seemed so noticeable when they met at Lance and Hunk's place. He was skinny, slender, but there was a broadness to his chest and some mass to his arms that he could just about see through the wrinkles of his over-large jacket that suggested some upper body strength. Did he work out? Would that be an acceptable topic for them to broach in a search for common ground?

“Why do you keep coming here?” The smaller male spoke quietly, and Shiro could hear the hesitation in his voice, the wariness, but at least he had spoken first and allowed that first hurdle to be cleared. He turned his head slightly to glance to him, but the boy's gaze was firmly locked on the coffee in his hand, knuckles white with his tight grip. He looked uneasy but kept his back straight with some stubborn determination, and he found himself intrigued by it.

“I like listening to you play,” he responded honestly, seeing no reason in lying. The square wasn't pretty to look at, there was nothing to do around here, it wasn't close to his classes if he just wanted somewhere quiet to read. It was entirely the sound of the other playing that called him back, time and again. The stranger glanced to him at that, expression unreadable, but he could see the faintest look of disbelief in his eyes with the way they pinched at the sides. “I've known a lot of pianists, but they're all.. How do I explain it?”

“Trained.” The other male deadpanned, looking back in front of him as he raised his cup to his lips, blowing over the liquid before taking a quick sip. “You're a Garrison student, aren't you?”

Shiro hadn't been expecting the scorn in those final words, not in the slightest. The Garrison was a highly respected conservatoire, difficult to get into too. Graduating from it gave you a respectable name going into the world of work. It wasn't the biggest of names, but it was certainly nothing to be ashamed of. The way the other spoke of it though.. It was like dirt, something he should be ashamed of being associated with. Like Shiro had just gone down in his respect for being associated with it, and he hadn't even confirmed it. He didn't need to, though, not verbally. The shuffle in his posture told him all. He scoffed quietly, scuffing the toe of his boot against the floor before crossing his ankles. “I knew it..”

“What's wrong with the Garrison?” Shiro glanced to him curiously, eyes searching his face for any hint, any sign of what his beef with the institute could be. Had he been rejected as an applicant? A would-be student sour that he'd not gotten the place, forced to watch as other people rose above him with the guidance and training? He found that hard to believe, especially after seeing and hearing him play. He was rough in his style, untempered, but talented nonetheless. Had he been a student there who got kicked out?

He didn't even both to give him a response, drinking petulantly out of his cup. If he had been a student who got kicked out, Shiro would have bet money on it being due to disciplinary issues. Nobody had time for a student who was going to be difficult to deal with in there. It was an honour to get a place, so if they didn't work their ass off in there then the place could easily be given to someone else.

Realising he wasn't going to get an answer on that front, Shiro sighed and settled on conceding for now. Perhaps he would elaborate a little more later on. “May I at least know your name?”

Eyebrows furrowed, but the drink was lowered and he watched as the other swallowed, glancing to him briefly then, eyes locking somewhere on his jaw rather than on his own. “Keith.” The purple gaze seemed to drift a moment, focusing on something off beyond Shiro's head before focusing back on him, right brow arching curiously. “I'm going to assume your name isn't actually Hercules?”

“Oh, God,” Shiro groaned loudly, more out of second-hand embarrassment than anything. “He didn't, did he?”

Keith pulled the crumpled paper out of his pocket and handed it to him, and Shiro nearly died when he saw the name, his number, and the 'xxx' written underneath in what was very clearly Lance's more boyish writing style. Shiro's own penmanship was more slanted and concise, while Lance very probably used to dot his i's with hearts, be it ironic or not. Apparently his reaction was theatrical on some level, because he could definitely see Keith smirking in response, and that did help ease his fear a little. But honestly.. What was going through Lance's head? Ever?

“I did wonder at first if it was his number but then I realised there was no way in hell a skinny twink like him could even consider himself to be comparable to Hercules,” Keith added, hands going back to play with his take out cup for the time being. Shiro had to agree on that point, but he also knew the guy in question. Lance would call himself anything if he thought it might get him a shot at a date. “I mean, I can call you that if you really want but I refuse to do it in public so..?”

He quickly realised he hadn't given a response, reaching up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck, feeling the rough brush of his undercut against his fingers and using that to ground him slightly. Did his social incompetence know no bounds?

“Shiro. I mean, my real name's Takashi, but everyone calls me Shiro 'cause my surname's Shirogane, so.. Yeah. Shiro.. Shiro works.” _Hello word vomit my old friend.._ This was getting ridiculous, he should be able to respond to something as simple as that without panicking. The way Keith got under his skin and unsettled him was really, well, unnerving for lack of a better term, but at the same time it intrigued him. Why could he do that? Why was it only this semi-stranger who left him a stammering mess? Maybe he'd never find out.

Still, to his surprise, his little fumble brought out what sounded like a chuckle from the younger male. It was most definitely a snort, but it seemed to be brought on from amusement rather than derision. He risked a quick glance over and, sure enough, a loosely clenched fist was placed against the other's mouth, and Shiro swore he could see a little crease at the corner of his eye where his lip was curved up in an almost invisible smile. “Alright, Shiro.”

Neither of them spoke for a short time after, the taller of the two taking time to slowly sip at his coffee, using it to distract himself from the horror of his mangled sentence just before. There weren't many people around them this lunchtime, and Shiro knew he wouldn't have all that long there until he had to go back to the Garrison to teach a few first years that afternoon, but for now he could be content in sitting here in what he hoped was companionable silence. It didn't feel awkward at least, not on his part, and he just hoped that it was mutual.

Keith still hadn't elaborated on why it was that he didn't like the Garrison as an institute, but he got the feeling that pushing wouldn't get him anywhere. He was still trying to get a measure on the other guy, but he seemed too fluid, too spontaneous. One minute he would be tense and reserved, the next confident or teasing, and although he'd yet to see him open fully, he also hadn't managed to work out what triggered the shift into each of these states. At least they had a few topics of discussion, and now that he knew that he wasn't a pupil and that discussing tutors would have no input from the other, he could foray into slightly different branches of their shared interest.

“Where did you learn to play like that?”

Keith hummed slightly at the question, tearing his gaze away from something off in the distance, possibly one of the leaves dancing in the wind, and turned an inquisitive gaze on the man sat next to him while he took the sentence in. He shrugged after a moment, leaning back against the bench and bringing his feet up, catching the heel of his boots on the end slat so he didn't have to exert effort in holding them there. The whole change in posture was probably to help keep warm, and Shiro was faintly envious that he could fit like that.

“Home. Experimenting. I didn't like the other kids and they didn't like the study, so it was my way of finding solace.”

“Big family?”

“Something like that.” Keith hunched up more, chin nestled into his thighs so that only his eyes were visible above his knees, and Shiro took the cue to quickly shift the conversation back to clearer waters.

“So you're self-taught?” Violet eyes glanced to him, narrowed, searching for a veiled insult. “I mean, I honestly thought you were a student here, because you play really, really well. I've heard final year students stumble where you just seem to glide, and..” _And you play like you're_ alive.

“Yeah?” He heard the rustle as the leather jacket shrugged beside him, echoing the nonchalant tone of his voice. “I just used the internet a lot, really. Taught myself to read music, taught myself the notes, went from there. There are some good tutorials on YouTube, you know, just mimic them until it gets comfortable.”

“Your parents never offered to get you piano lessons?”

“No.”

Sharp. Firm. So family was proving to be a delicate subject that he probably wasn't well-equipped enough to traverse just yet.

“What got you interested in music in the first place?” It seemed like a harmless question to him, but Keith's gaze was on him and closed off once more, a burning in his eyes that suggested he was walking a thin line right then.

“You sure do ask a lot of questions, don't you?”

It seemed a rhetorical question, and Shiro shut his mouth firmly closed, looking back down into his coffee for the time being. Don't rush it, don't push it, no biggie. He was a patient guy, most of the time. If Keith wanted to keep stuff to himself, he was fully entitled to it. Shiro just didn't want the air between them to get stale, but he could take a hint and back off for now. A quickly stolen glance at his watch told him he had another ten minutes until he needed to start heading back, and he was starting to wonder whether or not he should make tracks sooner rather than later, although a small part of him hesitated. He still didn't understand what Keith's agenda was in all this, aside from perhaps to establish that he wasn't actually a stalker.

In fact, the other male was barely even acknowledging him at that point, his gaze having returned off to the far end of the square. Shiro followed it, curious as to what it was that could hold his interest so, but he quickly realised that the only thing of any note over there was the piano itself. It still looked sorry for itself, with its battered and graffitied sides, the chain around one of its legs mirroring the one on its stool, keeping them in place, for as long as the council decided. It was nothing magnificent to look at, not at all, but yet he still felt a certain fondness for it, and clearly Keith did too. But maybe that was the whole point.

“What does music mean to you?”

The pianist's voice was quiet yet curious, his gaze not wavering a millimetre from that spot, and Shiro felt the weight of that question immediately. Keith was testing him. If music meant as much to this youth as it did to him, then this would be a deciding factor in how they perceived each other. It seemed so silly when he thought of it that way, but he reminded himself that there was a difference in how he looked at someone who said they liked dogs against someone who proclaimed that dogs were their whole world.

“It's been a constant in my life for as long as I can remember,” he responded softly, deciding that this, at least, was something he could talk about. If Keith had decided to break the silence with this question it must hold some weight to him, so the least he could do was give it a thoughtful answer. “Every room in my house back home is filled with it, every second, every decision. I guess for me.. Music is like love. Affection. It's something my parents shared with each other, shared with me. We spoke words, and we spoke music. No matter your language, you can make someone feel an emotion through music, and to me, that... That's an incredibly powerful gift.”

Keith didn't move as he listened, but Shiro swore that when he glanced to him again his eyes were just a fraction wider, the only minute difference on his otherwise stationary expression. He let the silence drag on a few seconds, a handful more, before turning to look at him fully and tilting his head in question. “What about you? What does music mean to you?”

The smaller male hesitated for a moment before he was on his feet in one fluid motion, scrunching up his cup and putting it back in the carry box, ready to chuck in the bin on his way past, his gaze intentionally avoiding Shiro's the whole while. Shiro frowned as he watched, not sure what to make of this sudden change in demeanour, though stood up as well in his confusion. “Keith-?”

“Sorry,” the other cut in, pulling his jacket a little tighter around him before turning his back on him, waving a hand at him in a half farewell as he started to walk away. “Gotta fly. Coffee's on you next time, Herc.”

Left standing there with a near empty cup of lukewarm coffee, Shiro was starting to realise that he knew very little more about his mysterious musician than he did an hour earlier, but there were a few things he was certain of. Firstly, that his name was Keith, or that was at least the name he wanted to be called by. Secondly, that any mention of family was a big no-no, and he was not about to judge him on that. And thirdly?

Shiro was just as screwed as Lance said he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to aim for a Monday/Tuesday update but I have two deadlines for next week so no promises. Still, next chapter we get a glance at what the world looks like from Keith's point of view~


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you paint with all the colours of the wind?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Surprise. I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me~_
> 
>  
> 
> I am _ridiculously_ sorry for how long this took to update. I got snowed under with essays and coursework and sewing and whenever I had free time to write the muse just. Wasn't. There.
> 
> BUT I FINALLY UPDATED.  
> (And I'm sorry that it's such a slow burn I was like "this isn't slow burn" then looked at the word count like oh).
> 
> I will try to update before the next season comes out, I really will.  
> Feel free to beat me with foam bats until I do.
> 
> Thank you, and hope this is worth the wait!

                Keith wasn’t sure exactly when one text became ten, or when the hours between each message fell into minutes. He couldn’t place the moment when the buzz of his phone started to bring a sensation of interest instead of dread, or when he’d start digging into his pocket to pull it out at random intervals, hopeful to see that small notification symbol at the top of his screen that promised another handful of inconsequential words that never failed to bring a smile to his face.

                He didn’t know which of them started the tradition of sending a goodnight text, but whoever woke up first sent a message wishing the other a pleasant day, and they hadn’t missed one since it became their thing. He found himself exchanging texts between deliveries on his shifts, sometimes commenting on the state of a client’s garden, or a particularly friendly pet that tried to follow him home. Once or twice, in his more jovial moods, he’d even messaged the other male to insinuate that most people tended to slip their delivery boy a tip rather than their phone number, which guaranteed a string of creative emoji’s on Shiro’s part.

                It was a good three weeks since their first proper meeting in the square, and although they hadn’t had chance to meet up again in person due to their individual obligations, they’d talked a considerable amount. They’d tried planning another coffee date, too, although their last one had fallen through when Keith’s boss had called him an hour before to say that he needed him in urgently – and he hadn’t been able to turn down the extra pay. It had been disappointing to miss out on meeting up with Shiro, especially now that the text messages had hopefully eased any of the original awkwardness between them, but the other had been understanding and promised that they could just reschedule.

                It wasn’t to be anything fancy, just a trip out for coffee and cake, but Shiro had asked Keith to come and meet him at the Garrison nonetheless. It was the only thing that he was hesitant over, really – perhaps he had been a bit too vague in expressing his dislike of the place, but he supposed he could make the effort nonetheless. If he and Shiro were to meet up more and (hopefully) become better friends, then he was either going to have to learn to deal with the fact that the other was their prime pupil and poster boy, or just overlook it.

                The building wasn’t too far from his apartment, at the least. Keith hadn’t bothered to bundle up very well, with his near-maroon scarf wrapped up over the lower half of his face to keep the biting breeze from chapping his lips and freezing the end of his nose off. As much as he knew red fabrics suited him, a glowing nose was hardly attractive, and for once in his life that was something he cared about. Shiro was, for all intents and purposes, what he would call his type. Tall, broad, a little quirky perhaps. In the short time they’d spent in physical proximity together, Keith had found himself drawn to those expressive grey eyes, the way the edges crinkled when he was thinking, or when he didn’t think he was being watched. His strong and pronounced nose lent him a very defined profile that seemed to match the rest of his body, and a not very small part of him really, _really_ wanted to trail a finger along that harsh jawline of his.

                Not that that would be polite in the slightest. While not being recognised for his respect of social conventions (or more to the point, he was known for his lack thereof), he wasn’t a complete savage.

                He blinked in irritation as his long hair fell in his eyes and caught on his lashes, tilting his head down with a rough shake in an attempt to dislodge some of the strands. He was regretting wearing his usual fingerless gloves, but hopefully he would have enough time inside the building itself to get feeling back in them before he ended up doing something embarrassing like dropping his mug in whatever café Shiro wanted to drag them to. Hands balled into fists in a last-ditch attempt to conserve some heat, quietly cursing the wintery weather the new year brought. Only a month until spring, at least, but February seemed even more determined than January to kill off the lesser organisms in the world. There was no rain, which he supposed he had to count as a blessing. His favoured leather jacket didn’t come with a hood, and a popped collar could only do so much.

                His eyes darted to the side of the street as he heard a dog start yapping unnecessarily at its reflection or whatever stupid mutts found fascinating. He didn’t dislike dogs, but he wasn’t fond of small terriers in the slightest. Always desperate to show off their voice without a care, always loud and piercing against his ears, the flecks of brown dotting his vision and causing a nuisance. It grated against him in a way that made him more irritable than usual, and he was quick to lower his head and march on with the intention of putting as much distance between him and the source of noise as possible.

                He’d always been very sensitive to sound, but he’d never thought much of it. He’d been told very early on as a child that the experience of colour and sound being so intrinsically linked to him was a genetic disorder, something he would put down to an inheritance gift from his ever-absent mother, but it didn’t mean he had to like it. Some sounds were pleasant enough, but most were the complete opposite. Growing up in the constantly noisy orphanage where he’d ended up at the young age of five, he’d been assaulted by a cacophony of irritants, things that had never bothered the other children. He could be sat in the lounge and hear the grating of wire sponges on pans in the kitchen two doors down the hallway, or on other occasions a sudden screaming from an excitable toddler upstairs would jolt him into such a fright that he temporarily locked up.

                Daily sounds were unpredictable and irregular, the hazy colours lacking co-ordination and coherence. It was the one thing he liked about his job, really. Although waiting to collect orders left him in an uncomfortably loud atmosphere, the rest of the time was on the relative silence of the roads where his bike helmet muffled the majority of noise.  It was something he could control, to an extent, and that was an aspect he valued immensely.

                He’d pursued music for a similar reason, really. The realisation that he could put sounds together that pleased him and that he could focus on was a huge step in the right direction. Whenever life had gotten too much for him, he’d gone to that little abandoned piano in the study, and he’d pressed keys together to make sounds that he could control. Pitch, volume, speed. It was in his power to tell them what and when.

                Of course, at the start, he’d only really worked out how to press a couple at a time. He’d had next to no co-ordination between his hands, either, finding it very difficult to tell the two to do two separate things. Thanks to a lack of anything better to do (and a frankly terrifying desire to prove wrong anyone who criticised him in any manner), and with the aid of a handful of YouTube tutorials, with little time and a lot of practice he taught himself to read music, and to dance over the keys almost as naturally as he found breathing. A charity shop not far from the orphanage sold old sheet music and he’d spend his small allowance on the sheets there, building himself up a nice little collection.

                Moving out of the orphanage and into a miniscule apartment of his own meant saying goodbye to that one outlet, unfortunately. And really? It had been hell. A cramped living space with two low-paying low-enjoyment jobs and nothing to expend his frustrated energy on. He could enjoy reading a good book in a quiet corner sometimes, but most of the time he just needed to _do_. The day he’d discovered that piano tucked away from civilisation had been a godsend, it really had. He’d sat down and he’d let the muscle memory flow and he’d played for hours. Nobody ever paid attention to him. He knew he could play competently, but it was untrained, it was rough and raw and it was just what he liked. People who walked through that square normally had their headphones on or were on their phones and therefore saw his noise as intrusive in their own lives.

                Shiro’s recurring presence had definitely stood out, in that sense.

                Keith found his steps slowing as the building that housed the local music school loomed, obnoxious in its design in his mind. It was one of those buildings that attempted to look older than it actually was, like a child playing dress-up in its parents’ clothes, with pretentious looking figure heads on the supports under the eaves, everything in a faded brown-grey wash too. There were one or two stained glass windows that were conspicuous in their lack of companions, as if they had been pilfered from some nearby church and plonked down in a mad bid for a look of class. An archway to the right of the building appeared to be the entrance to a courtyard where, presumably, a door to the building would lie. As if a courtyard itself weren’t obnoxious enough... Not that he could have expected better. What self-respecting conservatoire called itself “Galaxy” after all? He wouldn’t be surprised if their main concert hall had some stupid glass beads hanging from the ceiling that twinkled in the low lighting of a performance, really.

                Still, Shiro had asked to meet him here, and Keith would have to do his best to push his prejudices aside, no matter how much he loathed the place and the people in it. He was sure the people that went in had been talented, joyful musicians, but the performances he’d sat in on at the events opened to the public were nothing to write home about. All individuality had been stripped from the performers, and everything had given him a general sense of grey. It was almost military in its uniformity, and it was an affront to what music stood for to him.

                Shiro’s little twiddle on the piano, while technically poor, had at least shown some sense of personal drive, and when he’d spoken about his own feelings about music in general, Keith had definitely seen a passion and light in his eyes, something in his expression that told him not to give up all hope in whatever the Conservatoire chucked out. He hadn’t heard him on his major yet, though. That would be the deciding factor in his mind. He only prayed his past experiences wouldn’t apply this time.

                Squaring his shoulders, he pushed through his apprehension and stepped below the beige and rounded archway, finding himself in what was an infuriatingly pleasant courtyard. There was a grassy square in the centre with a collection of students milling and lounging about, and he imagined that in summer they would be draped over each other while eating lunch or going over their notes or whatever it was they actually did here. A thick pathway round around the sides of the exterior walls of the building, with a wide eave sheltering it from the elements. He could see noticeboards dotted about, and some certificates of excellence hanging higher up, the gold leaf detailing catching in the midday light. There were signs, too, with little arrows to kindly direct people to the rooms they were searching for.

                Which would have been helpful, he was sure, but “Bramall →” and “Nuffield ←” meant fuck all to him. Shiro hadn’t even specified where to find him. Just at the Conservatoire.

                Great.

                Trying not to feel self-conscious in a place where he _clearly_ didn’t fit in, Keith whipped his phone out and send Shiro a quick text to let him know he’d arrived and was in the courtyard, and decided to spend his time waiting looking at the certificates on the wall. He didn’t recognise the names, and he didn’t particularly care for them, either. Moving on a little he found a long, framed picture of the previous year’s graduation class. He vaguely remembered Shiro mentioning to him that he was technically a graduate, just sticking around to teach while he waited for his position to open up, but he was only halfway through scanning the faces when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder. Fuck, how he hated unsolicited touches like that.

                Turning sharply on the spot with a not so friendly glare, he found himself face to face with someone who he was sure he’d met before. Tall and lanky, with dark hair cropped short around a long and pointy face. He had a fellow student, presumably a friend, stood just behind his shoulder, a lot taller and broader than his companion with his hair swept out of his face with a yellow headband. The former of the two raised his eyebrows in comic alarm at Keith’s hostility, though soon relaxed back down with a confident grin as he lay a hand on a cocked hip.

                “You’re the pizza boy, right?”

                Oh. That was why he seemed familiar.

                Tugging his scarf down off the lower half of his face, Keith let out a small grunt of acknowledgement. “I’m here to see Shiro.”

                “Of course, of course, it’s not like you’d be delivering out here. Your company doesn’t come to us, I know. I’ve tried.”

                “I am aware.”

                Small talk. He hated it.

                The larger of the two males smiled a little shyly after a moment, raising a hand in a small gesture, as if to catch his attention. “Hey, nice to meet you. Shiro’s actually over-running so he asked us to come see if you were waiting, and to show you in to his office? I mean, if you want. You can wait out here if you’d rather.”

                Normally Keith would prefer to remain outside, but he could feel the odd gaze on him, no doubt curious about this stranger on their turf. If he tried he could pretend that they were staring at the two students talking to him. No doubt the first ran his mouth with just about everyone, and the second looked like the sort to get dragged into whatever fun times his friend had in mind. Poor guy.

                Rather than speaking, he merely tilted his head in the direction of the building, a silent request for them to show him in. He didn’t want to talk and risk giving the other the idea that conversation was welcome, but it seemed his silent hint was ignored either way. The former (Lance, a small and useless part of his brain supplied) didn’t seem to know the importance of silence. He lead the way while chatting about anything and everything, most of which Keith did his best to tune out. He was boasting about something or other, it seemed, perhaps wanting to shove it in the poor pizza boy’s face that he hadn’t gotten a place in this academy, but he didn’t care. Just about then he could really have done with seeing Shiro’s familiar face, but at least he should see him soon. He slyly checked his phone to see he had no new notifications, so it was possible that these two were telling the truth about him being busy. A selfish part of him hoped that it wouldn’t eat into their coffee time. He didn’t want to come out all this way (not that it was far, but he was being petulant) for nothing.

                The inside of the building at least looked better put together than the outside. Everything seemed to have been done in a dark wood, and it gave the hallways an austere feeling. He could imagine it would be nice to stand at one of the bay windows and look out on a spring shower, especially if there was nobody else in the building. The place did seem a lot more labyrinthine from the inside, though, with staircases and crossroads galore, and for a small moment he was inwardly grateful that he had a guide or two. They took him up the third staircase (labelled with “Practice rooms ↑” which, if he were honest, were not offices in his mind), which seemed to lead to a hallway of regulation rooms. Smallish, judging by the gaps between the doors, but they had timetables pinned to their privacy glass windows. It appeared Shiro’s was the end one, a little larger than the others, with a helpful _T. Shirogane_ stuck to the middle of the door, along with a timetable. The paper stated that he should have been free for the rest of the day, but his absence said otherwise. Perhaps he was busy elsewhere. Keith didn’t exactly know what he did here, after all.

                “…And that’s the story of how I had to do my first recital with a broken bow, but they gave me bonus points for creativity so I assume that worked out in the end?” Lance appeared to have finished his talk, at least, not that Keith had paid attention to it. Shame, it actually could have proven interesting. “He said to get you to just wait for him in here, anyway. He should only be about ten more minutes, but we’ll come make sure you’ve not been abandoned after we finish our class, yeah?”

                “If you need anything, just ask someone to find either Lance or Hunk,” the second, presumably Hunk, offered with a warm smile. He’d not said much the whole walk, except to act as something for Lance to bounce off with his story.

                “Thanks,” Keith responded, not having anything else to say. He put a hand on the handle, ready to let himself in to the office to wait, though turned to the other two briefly to see if they had anything else to say or if they were going to stop him.

                He was saved any further conversation by a loud bell ringing, Hunk jumping in alarm and shoving his friend, muttering something about them not able to be late to this class _again_ , and Keith watched as he dragged him off down the corridor, leaving him surprisingly alone. He could hear the muted sound of a couple of the practice rooms in use, so he knew others were up there with him, but part of him had expected to see people walking around. Shaking his head slightly he pushed the door open and stepped in, curious to see what his new friend’s “office” actually looked like.

                He wasn’t really sure what he’d been expecting. The man always seemed elegant and well put together on the few times they’d met, if perhaps a little easily flustered. He seemed the sort of teacher who would always have everything in neat files, with elongated and slanted handwriting and those knitted vests.

                While the folders on the shelf above the desk were stored in a neat and orderly manner, the haphazard sprawling of the sheets on the desk itself suggested otherwise. Curious, Keith approached, finding some hand-scrawled manuscripts in what seemed to be a condensed arrangement of some larger piece, and if he could read the pencil marks well enough it seemed to be written for a string quartet. He traced a finger over the cello stave, following the notes up and down as he attempted to hum the line to himself, but he knew that without its fellow instruments that single part would mean little on its own. It was the same with the piano, really. It was only when both hands came together that the sound really came to life.

                Drawing himself away from the half-finished work, he took in the rest of the room. It was long, with a large window down the far end and a small desk slotted in against the surface, though what caught his interest was the open case on top. The case itself was sleek and black, and he couldn’t resist stepping over to eye its contents properly. He didn’t know much about cellos, but the wood appeared to carry a dark sheen and a smooth finish, something he ached to touch and feel for himself but knew not to out of respect. He faintly wondered what it would sound like with the bow drawn across strings, especially by someone who was both talented and passionate about it. Perhaps he could ask Shiro to play for him some time. He wanted to hear what coloured the other’s playing, both figuratively and literally.

                He settled an elbow on the table, chin propped up on a loose fist as he studied the cello for any imperfections on the surface. Every scratch carried a story, be it merely a bump against a rough surface or something more, but he couldn’t spot anything. Perhaps they were there, but on the back, or maybe Shiro had had them covered up to keep it in its pristine condition.

                Either way, his attention was most definitely drawn away when he heard the handle turn in the door, the brush of wood against carpet as it was pushed open, and he turned to catch Shiro with a small smile. The other male looked smart in his ( _called it_ ) knitted grey vest over an open-necked black shirt, that long fringe loosely swept so it brushed against the right side of his nose and those warm eyes brightened as they saw him.

                “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he apologised quickly, shutting the door behind him before dropping a small folder down on his desk, a name scribbled on the side that Keith couldn’t make out from this distance. A pupil, perhaps. He didn’t know, and he didn’t particularly care. He just felt warmed by the other’s presence, and alarmed at the sensation itself.

                “It’s fine,” he responded, leaning back lazily against the desk beside the cello, letting his gaze drift slowly up and down the other. He looked smart on the surface, but he could see where his shirt had become untucked at his hip, no doubt while twisting to sort something. It was cute. It was like seeing the cracks in a façade – it gave character. “Are you still okay to go out for coffee, or...?” He didn’t want to push if Shiro had something else that needed his attention more. He’d be miffed at the inconvenience, sure, but he’d understand.

                “I am, yeah. I’m free for the rest of the afternoon, so there’s no rush to get back if you want to linger at all.”

                Keith let his gaze drop to the cello beside him, wondering if he could ask, or even if he should, but he’d see how they felt after coffee. It could be that, despite how well they’d been getting on in messages, in person they might tire of each other quickly. He hoped not, but he understood well enough that people could be incredibly tiring. Raising his eyes up to Shiro’s face once more, finding what could only be described as an expectant and hopeful look on his face, Keith offered him a slanted smile once more, and nodded.

                There was nothing wrong with a little bit of improvisation.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith and Shiro finally get to go on their first date, and Shiro starts to have a few revelations about his feelings for his new friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been over half a year, I know, but I never said I was punctual >.>
> 
> No matter what I promise I will finish this fic. It's frustrating because I have the ending completely planned out and basically written, I'm just having a little difficulty in getting there.
> 
> I start my postgraduate degree very soon so I aim to write a little more before then, but we'll see.
> 
> Either way thank you again for all the support <3

Shiro had underestimated how content he could feel in the company of another. There was something so incredibly heart-warming, so addictive in the way his stomach flipped with eager butterflies at the mere sound of Keith’s light laughter. Despite the crisp air, the slightly grey skies, the gloomy surroundings, the sight of his coffee date hiding a snort of laughter behind his hand was one of the most pleasant things Shiro had had the fortune to experience. He didn’t think what he’d said was even that funny, or something that Keith would find particularly amusing, but the reaction he’d gotten from it was definitely not something he’d complain about.

“Seriously?” The youth in question turned to him with a light in his eyes, the edges of his lips curled up in a smile and barely visible from behind his fingers. “What did you do after that?”

He seemed so eager and engaged in his story that Shiro felt compelled to continue, loosely linking his arms behind his back as they walked. They’d stopped for a brief coffee and it had been pleasant enough, but when the place started to get crowded Keith had asked if they could head back outside and take a long walk back to the Garrison. He’d looked so uncomfortable among all the hubbub that Shiro hadn’t been able to deny him, even if he’d wanted to.

“Well, after Romeo had lost his sword and nearly decapitated my desk partner in the process, he just continued acting, credit to him. We couldn’t let it go easily though, could we?” He glanced up to the sky with a fond expression on his face, enjoying the nostalgia. He hadn’t expected Keith to be so invested in the chaotic tales of his life with the Garrison’s orchestra, but he seemed to want to know everything the cellist had to offer. It was sweet. “So, during the interval act, Krys and myself decided we’d have a little fun. The pit isn’t overly visible to the rest of the theatre, but we were right at the front anyway and most of the orchestra had decided to linger back.”

They mutually paused beside one of the benches in the park they’d been exploring, Keith taking a seat and pulling his feet up to rest on the furthest slat so he could wrap his arms around his knees, that bright look of anticipation still painted clearly on his face. “And?” He tilted his head slightly, reminding Shiro of a dog staring intently as its human companion spoke to it, wanting to understand every drop of wisdom being passed its way. “What did you two do?”

“Krys got up,” Shiro continued, mimicking the actions as he described them, “And pretended to draw the sword that he’d ended up with before pointing it at me and challenging me to a duel. I was armed only with my bow, but it would have been rude to decline, and we knew each other well enough to avoid actually causing any damages to our instruments, but we ended up miming this big sword fight right at the front of the pit. Our conductor just watched on in resignation.” And a hint of amusement, too. He was glad it hadn’t been one of the stricter conductors for them, really. As a senior member of the Garrison’s primary orchestra he was supposed to be there to show them how to behave, not to give hundreds of younger students the idea that it was okay to mess around like that in front of the audience. “The brass section got in on it, too, giving us a fanfare. The audience seemed to enjoy it immensely while they were waiting for the play to continue.”

With his little display finished, Shiro took his seat next to Keith, not even noticing as he twisted his hips to face him and slung an arm on the bench behind him. His companion moved to mirror the angle, face still resting on his knees with a light and innocent expression. “I didn’t know orchestras could be so much fun,” Keith admitted in a wary tone. “All the Garrison students I’d met before had sticks right up their asses. No life or fun in them, just mechanically playing what was on the page as if they knew nothing else.”

“There’s a couple of them, I won’t lie.” More than a couple, really. “But there’s also a lot of people who just know how to let loose. You’ll find the majority of brass majors are a bit wacky. Loud and brash and really full of life.”

Keith made a small noise that Shiro was sure counted for a hum of agreement, but it was the expression in his eyes which caught him out. That curious shade of lavender seemed bright but also...

_Sad._

It was as if the youth felt nostalgic or wistful, looking back on a life he’d had but not been able to retain.

 _Or maybe_ , Shiro thought, mind casting back to the disdain and closed-off nature Keith had shown during their first face-to-face discussion, _it’s the expression of one who looks on something he wants from the outside_.

“Tell me more,” Keith spoke softly, voice a little quieter than before but looking no less interested. “I didn’t realise that there were stereotypes like that. What are the other sections like?”

Shiro tapped his fingers idly on the back of the bench as he thought, sucking the corner of his lip in and playing against it with his teeth before responding. “I guess it’s different for different orchestras, but in my experience with the ones I’ve played with, the further back in the orchestra you go, the more rebellious they get. I guess you’re further away from the conductor. The percussion and brass together are nightmares, and they rope the woodwind into it sometimes. There’s a playful divide, you know, between strings and wind? They see us as very serious and uptight.”

“I wonder why.” That was most definitely a teasing tone that came out of Keith, and as Shiro glanced to his face he saw the corners of his eyes crinkling with a dancing light in them. His humour didn’t show itself often in the time they’d known each other, but Shiro was almost certain that a lot of it was social awkwardness or just general shyness on Keith’s part. He had to admit that it was certainly endearing.

“Excuse me? And what do you mean by that?” He replied, bending his elbow to prop his cheek up with a loosely formed fist.

“I just mean,” Keith started, the playful glint in his eyes seeping into his tone, a joviality to it that Shiro hadn’t anticipated hearing, “That you dress like some school teacher who is too mature for his age and you look like the sort of person to collect porcelain figurines of windmills or something.”

“Dogs.”

“What?”

The pure disbelief in Keith’s voice spurred on the encroaching blush Shiro felt, his cheeks warming under the admission he just let slip. If his coffee date hadn’t thought he was a dork before, he certainly would from then on.

“I, uh.. I have a collection of porcelain dogs.”

If Keith’s snort before had been reserved, this time he let loose. He practically doubled over, one hand pressed against his stomach and the other up against his mouth, making a valiant attempt to hide his reaction but without any real success. His laughter, once light, came out as more of a sharp bark, and his eyes crinkled tightly in an attempt to suppress the water that threatened to leak from them. Shiro, to his credit, did pretend to look offended. He wasn’t, and if anything he was just pleased to make Keith laugh some more. The pout on his face was a little more put on than not, but he couldn’t deny the concern low in his gut that maybe he’d shown his hand to be too weird for Keith to want to socialise with any more.

When the younger male finally calmed enough to draw in more than a passing gasp of a breath he turned to look to Shiro and reached up to quickly brush the side of his finger against his own eyes in case any water had slipped between his lids. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

Not the adjective he’d been expecting. “How so?”

It didn’t seem like Keith was going to elaborate, much to his dismay. The boy merely shrugged with a secretive smile, settling his body back to sit on the bench properly. He reclined back, legs stretching out in front of him.

Shiro took the silence as a mutual moment of peace, shifting to mirror his posture on a subconscious level and look out at the path before them. In the distance of the park he could see children playing, a dog or two gambolling and knocking into each other in sheer joy at the other’s presence. Everywhere he looked, people or creatures or even things co-existed. Sometimes it was easy enough to look at things individually without recognising how they balanced and relied on their surroundings to exist. Trees seemed almost to lean on each other for support, their boughs reaching towards each other without quite touching. It was a distanced support, not a physical one.

He found himself leaning a little into Keith without really realising.

He didn’t really acknowledge when Keith moved to match, either.

Shiro didn’t know the last time he’d felt so at ease with another person. Sure, their initial meeting had been a little rocky. He’d embarrassed himself more than he’d thought possible, and overthought and overanalysed every little moment, but after finally getting the chance to just spend time with Keith away from the others, away from distractions, he found himself coming to understand that Keith brought an air of calm to him that he’d never found anywhere else.

Anyone could see that Keith had this quality to him, a certain tilt to his posture or the tension in the way he carried himself, something about him that made him stand out from the crowd. At first, Shiro had thought it to be intimidating, something to be admired from afar, like a rare painting in a gallery. Distanced, alone, respected.

He was slowly coming to realise, little by little and almost effortlessly, that what Keith embodied wasn’t stoic art. Much like what drew Shiro’s passion to his own art in the first place, Keith was like music. He was meant to be appreciated, yes, but he was meant to be lived. He was meant to be involved in that toe-tapping, finger-twitching way. He couldn’t truly be understood through words on a screen or from the other side of a room.

Shiro’s previous revelation that perhaps Keith had never been able to involve himself in musical groups before suddenly made him feel all the sadder.

“What’s the stereotype about pianists?” Keith asked in a soft voice, stirring Shiro from his thoughts. His gaze was distant but relaxed, eyes trailing over some bird pecking at the ground not far from them. Shiro hummed in consideration, folding his arms behind his head and slouching a little where he sat.

“For a lot of people,” he hazarded, tone a little wary as if concerned about causing offence, “especially in the orchestral world, they’re just.. They don’t fit in. Not if it’s their major. A lot of us can play piano too, it’s basically essential if you want to keep friends. You know, accompany them for practices and recitals and stuff. But that’s just it – they’re either accompanists, or soloists. It’s so rare to find a piano written in to a piece without it being the star of the show. To a lot of us, pianists are these prodigies who don’t work well with the rest of us. There’s almost always at least another of our instrument in the orchestra at any one time. The piano is… It’s always alone.”

He found himself half holding his breath after that, waiting to see Keith’s reaction and anticipating something negative. All he got in response was a breathy snort and he felt his shoulders relax a little.

“Yeah, me too, to be honest.” Keith flashed him a small smile, keeping his head straight but glancing to him out the corner of his eye. “But now that you’ve told me what the rest of the world thinks, what about you? What’s your opinion?”

Shiro blinked. “Of pianists? Or of you?”

Another small snort. “Surprise me.”

Shiro blew a small breath out and up, watching the ends of his fringe dance under the pressure. It was hard to put feelings into words, sometimes. It was harder still to put them into words that didn’t risk misinterpretation. “My father is a pianist,” he started, “which probably makes me a little bias. But in my personal experience they’re loyal. They see the best in you that you don’t see in yourself, possibilities that you never thought you could reach. They see the best in others and the average in themselves.”

How often had his own father put himself down in order to better focus on his pupils and, later, his son? How often had he insisted that his own ‘meagre’ talent would wither when faced with that of those around him? He didn’t know if those words would fit Keith yet, but he hoped not. He’d heard the pure, raw potential in him that very first afternoon. He wanted Keith to recognise his own worth and never put himself down.

“He’s the one who got you into music?” There it was again, that wistful tone. Shiro remembered that last time he’d tried to bring up Keith’s family he’d been shut down, so he was going to act on experience and not turn the conversation back on him.

“Both of my parents. I came from a fairly musical lineage.”

Keith made a small noise of understanding, raising his hands to blow a little warmth on his fingertips. The air was still chilly outside and without coffee to warm them up, he was starting to feel it. “ _Music is like love_. That’s what you said, wasn’t it? About what music means to you?” He didn’t bother waiting for an answer, chuckling weakly to himself. “Sorry, you did mention they got you into music. I’d forgotten.”

Shiro smiled lightly and lopsidedly, head tilting in the process. “You never told me what it meant to you. It’s okay if you don’t want to, I don’t want you to—”

“It’s escapism.”

That caught Shiro’s interest. Although he knew what people meant when they talked about hobbies being a form of escapism, the tone with which Keith had spoken suggested it wasn’t that sort. He didn’t push, waiting for the other to open up himself. Keith made a small and frustrated noise, as if searching for the words himself to explain his meaning.

“It’s like.. Sometimes life just traps you, and everything around you holds you in. Literally. There are things you can’t control and whenever you try and leave them the bars just get tighter. Music was.. It was literally my way out. I thought it was going to take me all the way out, but it never did.”

Shiro found himself offering him an apologetic smile, one Keith roughly shrugged off, but the hand he placed over the other’s was better received. He squeezed in reassurance, Keith eventually lowering them to rest on his lap.

“Stereotype of the struggling musician?” Shiro offered kindly, doing his best to keep the tone light. Keith snorted.

“Something like that.”

Shiro brushed his thumb over the skin of Keith’s hand, hoping he wasn’t overstepping his mark. After one initial moment where Keith seemed to tense, they settled into a comfortable silence once more. Shiro found the small and repetitive circles he traced in the juncture between thumb and hand to be therapeutic, and brought the two of them just a little closer. Keith always wore fingerless gloves, it seemed, but at the angle Shiro was sat he just had access to the softer skin underneath. It felt more intimate than it probably should be, but he was beginning to find a lot of things with Keith felt closer than he first thought.

“Your hands are cold.”

“No shit. It’s freezing out here.”

Shiro rolled his eyes in good nature and took Keith’s hand in his, coercing it to slide into the pocket of his jacket. It was a bit of a tight squeeze but he was sure it would help him warm up soon enough. “We may as well head back. I need to collect my things before they lock me out of the building, anyway.”

Despite his very brief concerns about time, the two of them ambled all the way back to the Conservatoire, hands joined in Shiro’s pocket for the duration. They talked about nothing in particular, pointing out things in shop windows that caught their eyes, or a particularly nice car parked on the side of the road. When a cat barrelled out from an alley beside them and nearly tripped Shiro up the conversation quickly towards pets and ideal future companions. Shiro admitted almost sheepishly that despite his love of dogs, he did have a minor allergy towards them and doubted they would be the wisest choice for him.

Keith’s undisputed favourite was, naturally, a cat. “Fuss-free and independent” were his words, citing that dogs were too needy for him while cats could respect the decorum in socialising in silence and at opposite ends of the room.

Their steps slowed mutually as they approached the looming archway that lead to the building again, Keith gently making to tug his hand free and arguing that he really did need to head back soon. Shiro reluctantly let him go, though was pleased when the other didn’t immediately move out of the way. Neither seemed to know how to end it, both knowing they needed to say their farewells but unsure how to. It was as if they both wanted to make sure the other knew they had enjoyed the afternoon but didn’t want to come across as too forward.

“I want to see you again,” Shiro blurted after a moment, always able to trust his mouth to run with him when his brain started to shy away. He smiled weakly as he tried to regain some sense of control, straightening a little. “If you’d like, that is. I had a really good day today.”

Keith hummed a little, fighting a small smile of his own on his face. Even though the feeling was mutual, he seemed reluctant to give up too much. “I’ll text you,” he promised, gaze dropping to the floor for a brief moment. Shiro watched as an array of emotions flitted through those dark eyes, ones he couldn’t identify and that passed so quickly he almost had to wonder if he’d imagined them.

Seconds later, and he was stifling a small noise of surprise as Keith leaned up, one hand firmly gripping the front of his shirt, and brushed the smallest of kisses against the corner of his mouth. He lingered there a moment, eventually loosening his fist and letting Shiro’s clothes go again. The taller male found himself frozen, unsure of how to react and not wanting to say or do anything that might make Keith regret his actions.

Keith merely laughed once, a light and ringing sound, and patted the jeans pocket where his phone sat, snugly. “Til later,” he swore one last time, and turned on his heel to head back off into the crowds before he could allow the potential repercussions of his actions to hit him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If music be the food of love, play on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links to the pieces played in this chapter (since I didn't work their names in to the writing itself).
> 
> Quartet piece: [Ulster String Quartet - "Intermezzo" from Cavalleria Rusticana](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jxAbK8Rr5g8)
> 
> Cello solo: [Ilse de Ziah's Soilse in Darkness](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GusIbfY_ETk)

Keith slipped in through the doors to the large hall as silently as possible, taking care not to splash any gathered near the back as he pulled his jacket back to where it should have been. The spring rains had hit hard towards the end of March and caught him unawares on his walk from his flat. He’d pulled his jacket over his head in a vain attempt to keep himself dry, but he could already feel droplets gathering at the bottom of his mullet and soaking into his shirt. He had few doubts as to his appearance right then, sure that he must look even more rugged than usual, but it wasn’t like he was out to impress people.

Just the one, and the one in particular had assured him that he liked him just as he was.

Since his slightly bold move at the end of their coffee date a few weeks prior, the atmosphere between them had been.. Different. To Keith’s frustrations, Shiro seemed hesitant to push any further. They hadn’t exchanged any other affectionate gestures, but since then conversation tended to take a turn for the flirtatious. Shiro would compliment him a lot more, or stare at him more frequently. It was odd, but not at all unpleasant. At first such attention had made Keith feel uneasy but he’d soon grown used to it just being something Shiro did that couldn’t be helped.

They’d both tried to organise more dates but aside from the odd lunch session the two of them had had conflicting schedules. Despite not getting chance to meet face-to-face, Shiro having early mornings and Keith getting in late and sleeping all day, they’d made an effort to keep in touch through messages and frequent phone calls. Some nights Shiro did his best to stay up to make sure Keith got home alright, especially if the weather had been nasty and the roads rough. That kind of thoughtfulness was what he really appreciated, and what he really hadn’t been expecting from the other.

That was the kind of affection that really made his heart flutter.

Halfway through this particular evening his boss had decided to send him home, the workload for the night not being enough to merit his hanging around. Although he’d initially been forced to decline Shiro’s invitation to the evening performance, as soon as he’d gotten off work he’d decided to make his way over. He knew the other had been putting in a considerable amount of work for this concert, something he’d been shocked to find was a no-profit ordeal.

“It’s good publicity for the Garrison,” Shiro had sleepily argued one night, shortly after issuing the open invitation to Keith. “And knowing people have come to enjoy what we provide is reward enough.”

Keith had to admit, he was impressed with the turnout. It was only a small number of them performing, Shiro had explained, just his close-knit group of friends working together to organise and play for the crowd. He caught sight of a few empty chairs at the back and slipped into the end one, picking up the nearest programme to browse over. It was simplistic but efficient, monochromatic (no doubt to save on printing), with a few musical decals along the edges. It looked to be a fairly long concert, with an interval in the middle. He knew he must have missed the start, and his heart sank a little to spot a few of Shiro’s solos in the first half that he wouldn’t get chance to hear. He’d also missed a few pieces by some names he half recognised, though he couldn’t put faces to them off the top of his head.

A quick glance over the tops of heads confirmed that the stage was, currently, empty. There were four chairs set up with four stands, presumably ready for the _Leo Quartet_ to open the second half. His eyes immediately fell on a grand piano just to the side of the stage, black and sleek and sexy in all the right ways. Keith’s fingers twitched immediately. He’d never had the fortune to play a grand himself, but he’d always wanted to. He almost resented whoever got to play that one. They didn’t know just how lucky they were.

The stage sat raised at the end of what he presumed was a function hall. It was spacious and he was sure that was going to mess with the acoustics, but there was little they could do about that. He was sat close enough to the back that if his sensory overload kicked in he could easily make a polite escape without too many people noticing. Just knowing that that way out was available made him feel more relaxed about the whole situation. It was being stuck in a situation without an alternative that usually put him on edge.

Keith found himself studying the coving running around the rim of the ceiling when a general hush fell over the gathered audience, people quickly finishing conversations and starting up an applause instead. He craned his head round the pseudo-poodle perm in front of him, finding a comfortable view so long as everyone else remained fairly still in their seats. He caught sight of the two students who had met him that time outside the Conservatoire taking their seats on the left-hand side of the stage, violins in hand. Beside them came a rather small youth, although the programme’s name of Katie Holt wasn’t one he remembered Shiro mentioning before.

His person of interest was soon sitting on the far right, and Keith had to admit that imagining Shiro in a suit and seeing him in one were two very different things. He wore black a lot better than he had anticipated, and the bow tie just finished the look off. His fringe had been styled to the side and out of his eyes and gave his face an overall harsher look, his profile so defined Keith found himself staring a little. He looked more mature, but not necessarily older. More in control, perhaps. It was a good look on him.

When the audience had settled into silence, the left three began to play. It was a high, almost pastoral start to the piece, but Keith was busy staring at Shiro who merely sat there, waiting to come in. He was pleasantly surprised with how well the three voices merged but they were lacking their fourth, that rich and sultry undertone that brought it all together. He sat upright a little more when he saw Shiro’s bow move to hover over the strings, and then it was brushing against them and Keith felt that final piece slot into place. The cello and first violin moved together, the highs and lows supporting each other and bringing the tune out between them. After a moment more of watching the grace of his friend’s motions, Keith settled back in his chair and closed his eyes, letting the colours of the music wash over him.

It wasn’t like whenever he’d listened to other Garrison musicians play. Where their music would merge into a dull brown, he could practically hear the four of them paint together. Shiro’s rich purple tone and the delicate and high blues from Lance wove between each other effortlessly, while the dancing middle voices filled the spaces with greens and yellows. A perfect balance of warm and cold, maintained at all times. All four of them put so much soul into their performances that people were physically _moved_ around them. Keith could tell as much just from the atmosphere – the whole room became reverent, frissons down spines and hair standing on edge.

This, _this_ was how music was meant to be.

His fingers tapped idly against his thighs as he listened, the piece gently carrying him through the whole way until it finished with a tasteful high note, the cello grounding the others with its sustained sigh and Hunk plucking at the strings in a way that reminded Keith of a bird taking off and away from a perfect scene, leaving it undisturbed yet incomplete.

The applause that broke the following tentative silence was well deserved, and Keith found himself smiling as he watched the four of them stand and take a bow. It was amusing to him to be able to see the differences in that simple action, too. Lance seemed to soak the attention up while his friend shied away from it. The girl seemed to have a slightly awkward smile on her face, although pleased nonetheless. Shiro was a little harder to read, in his mind. There was a joy in his eyes, but also an apprehension to the slant of his shoulders, as if it were a conscious effort to hold himself so straight. Modesty, most likely. An endearing look on him, too.

Perhaps Keith would have to shower him in praise after the concert to see if his theory was true.

The rest of the performances followed through in the same vein as the first – different combinations between soloists and groups, some predictable, some not so. He spotted the woman he’d seen with Shiro that time in the square playing a large and elegant harp, watched as her fingers danced over the strings as if she never needed to touch them. It was an instrument that had long since fascinated him, but one he’d never had the chance to play with and one he doubted he ever would. His drive to play one had disappeared over time, but it didn’t mean that he couldn’t still appreciate it. He found himself pleasantly surprised with how well the harp and Lance’s violin complimented each other.

The two musicians seemed to work rather well together, too. There was a chemistry between them as they drove the music faster and filled the beats with energy, and it added something to the piece that he hadn’t known it was missing. He watched as they shifted and twisted, physically echoing the parts they were playing. One leaned in and the other moved with them, a gravity in place on the stage that they both affected and were effected by. It drew the audience in, the playful atmosphere seeping out over every person gathered there to watch.

After them the small girl came to play a piece of her own, accompanied by someone who looked a lot like her on the grand piano. He assumed that they must be siblings. Despite their intense similarities, the pianist looked older than her and carried himself with a little more confidence and ease. Everywhere he looked, Keith saw people playing together. Every time they shared the stage with another they seemed to breathe and live it, and he felt the loneliness cinch around his chest a little more with each passing moment.

He’d always insisted he wanted to play alone. There were too many variables to line up – he wasn’t used to matching pace with another, or trying to adjust it so that their tones worked well together. Tuning, too. Style, technique, that emotive freedom of tempo that flowed so instinctively when he played solo that he doubted he could ever find with another. If it was scheduled it was fake, since he was a firm believer of everything being instinctive and on the fly.

Yet as much as he told himself that he could cope just well on his own.. He was tired. He was tired of being alone. The more he’d started to let Shiro in to his daily life, the more he realised he wanted to share more and more of himself. It was so relieving and joyful to share a good experience or a joke with another, passing on the good mood and watching it spread. When something dragged him down it was cathartic to dissect it with a friend, to split the burden and watch the heaviness dissipate.

He found himself growing encroachingly jealous to see the others get to share Shiro’s sole passion with him while he was left to watch.

It was almost a relief when he saw the cellist take to the stage to finish the concert off, chair in the centre and piano empty. There was no stand, no clutter, nothing to detract from the sight of him sat there alone. His knees clamped lightly around his cello as he ran the fingers of his flesh hand along the neck, grazing over the strings and focusing on the feel of him under his pads. His prosthetic adjusted his grip on the bow, a slight twist of the wrist carrying through the motion of the long piece of wood. Keith watched, enraptured, as Shiro closed his eyes and the whole room fell silent. He had such a presence that demanded respect without ever making the demand. He’d seen people forced to fight and petulantly wait for the silence they deserved. Shiro had no such troubles. He looked so at home up there in the quiet before the storm that it was impossible not to give him one’s full attention.

He lowered his head, almost imperceptibly nodded it once, twice, and then he began.

Thumb resting at the very base of the neck, he plucked at a single string with his ring finger. It didn’t change pitch but it immediately set a strong and stable tempo, something low and rough that reminded Keith of a war march. He watched in awe as the bow drove firmly against the strings, the other fingers pressing against the neck to alter the pitch while his ring finger never faltered for a moment. He couldn’t begin to imagine the co-ordination needed right then. Sure, his own instrument required all ten fingers moving independently, but it was a completely different circumstance in his mind.

Shiro played with his whole body, torso twisting and shifting as his shoulder lead each pull of his bow. There was a moment when he slid the horsehair across multiple strings at once and Keith immediately dug his fingers into his thighs as he braced for the inhuman screech that was sure to follow. To his pleasant surprise the notes, while falling in between the Western-recognised pitches, slid chromatically down lower without ever bending in a way that was painful. It was unsettling, as intended to be, but not once did it sound unpleasant to the point of unintentional. Every motion was precise, a restrained freedom to his playing, and Keith even spotted patterns in the way Shiro shifted his head as he lead in to the next section.

The music shifted from a low and driving Norse-sounding refrain into something snappier and quicker, Celtic in style. He watched his fingers move with fluidity and ease as they walked up and down the neck, not once missing a beat or a step as his bow pressed down both on single strings and doubles, managing to fill the room with the sound of multiple instruments from just one alone. The syncopation was forceful and firm, confident in its statement. Keith found his foot tapping solidly inside his boot, the silence on each beat louder for its absence. The piece explored both the richer and broader sounds of the lower register before singing in the tighter, sharper and higher limits of the instrument. It was easy to hear the versatility of both cello and cellist, the two working together to paint images of clashing seas and white-tipped waves in the minds of everyone present.

It may not have been what Keith had been expecting to hear from him, but there was no doubt to him that Shiro was worth every bit of respect he seemed to have gained at the Garrison. There was a talent to him that had been cultivated to perfection, as much as it pained him to praise the institute. Would Shiro have been able to play so well without them? Potentially, but it was unlikely he would have ever reached such a polished state as this.

The music ended too soon to rapturous applause, the shut-away expression on Shiro’s face fading quickly to muted embarrassment as he stood and took his bows. There were catcalls and yells of praise that were finally hushed for an ending speech to explain the charity collection boxes near the exits. Since it was a free entry, it was only polite to donate a little to the group’s chosen charities on the way out. Keith wasn’t surprised to hear that the charity of choice was one that dealt with amputee youths. People began to file out towards the great doors behind him, but Keith had his eyes elsewhere and was immediately weaving his way through to make his way to the front of the stage.

He got there to see everyone packing their instruments away, a light and gentle banter between them as they did so. Even out of performance they just… They practically flowed together. Lance and Allura seemed to be the ones at the exits collecting donations, but Keith spotted the soft case covering her harp near the back. Hunk was dismantling stands and stacking chairs in the corner, the Holt siblings shoving each other light-heartedly while they sorted out the sound system.

Keith quietly stepped round the outside to where Shiro was putting his instrument away, delicately draping the velvet cover over the top of it to protect it from the inside of his case. There was a small smile on his face, as if relieved to have everything done and done so successfully, though when Keith lightly touched his arm to catch his attention he jolted and glanced to him immediately, that smile blossoming into something full and bright that made the former’s stomach jump and twist a little uncomfortably with butterflies.

“Hey,” Shiro breathed, eyes practically dancing. “You made it. I thought you had work?”

“Work got cancelled,” Keith smiled back, unable to help himself as he stepped a little closer. The lack of confirmation about the standing of their relationship was killing him inside, but Shiro opened his arms almost immediately and wrapped around him, pulling him in a little closer. Keith reached up to brush the tips of his fingers over the lapel of his suit jacket, feeling the soft material underneath. “You look smart.”

The blush that peppered the other’s cheeks reminded Keith of his plan to praise Shiro more and more, just to see that completely adorkable side of him. Shiro ducked his head a little and Keith leaned in, glancing up underneath the hair that Shiro had been attempting to hide behind. He felt bold in his teasing, but he was happy and warm and got to spend time with his friend that he hadn’t been expecting to get. “It would be disrespectful to perform in anything less.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Keith smirked, feeling a surge of confidence in his chest that he really didn’t know the cause of. Either way, he wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth when teasing his romantic interest was on the line. “I think almost all the old ladies in the audience would have been very happy to see you in less. Get rid of this..” He tugged lightly on his jacket, sliding his hands under the fabric to brush against the crisp white shirt underneath. “This, too. You can keep the bow tie. Very dapper.”

“How kind,” Shiro responded, his voice almost coming out in a drawl. He squeezed Keith’s waist under his hands, and the younger was sure he could feel a nervous hesitance to his grip, as if afraid to overstep his boundaries. It was nice to have his space respected like that, but he wanted to reassure Shiro that right then any touches would be more than welcome. He was just about to work out how to say as much when Shiro seemed to straighten a little and look over him, Allura and Lance returning with their tins full of generous donations.

“I won!” Lance cheered loudly, waving his hefty collection in the air. Allura rolled her eyes lightly as she followed him, though the ‘it wasn’t a competition’ remained unspoken between the group. Keith could practically feel Shiro’s amused huff beside him as his hands dropped back to his sides, the space between them felt immediately. Keith didn’t know why he was offended or upset at that. They weren’t dating, so Shiro was allowed to drop his contact when others were watching. It was no big deal.

Maybe he’d just wanted to be reassured that the other wasn’t ashamed to be seen with him. It wasn’t like the others didn’t know they were friends, but was that all they were ever going to be? He knew he was overthinking it, felt himself withdrawing in on himself as the group passed congratulations between each other, that blond pianist coming over to clap Shiro firmly on the shoulder in praise. They all seemed so _together_ , and the more Keith watched the more he felt trapped on the other side of a window, watching them. A window with no hinges, one he was destined to stay on the outside of.

A loud cry of joy went up around them and Keith quickly forced his attention back to the present, watching as Lance tackled Hunk and the two slung their arms around each other. There was a general air of cheer between them all, and it took him a moment or two to pick up that a group trip out to the pub had been suggested as a way of celebrating a successful evening. The two students set off first, Matt and Katie following a little behind with some gentle ribbing at each other (primarily about Katie’s young age, it seemed, although she appeared to be very adamant about joining them and getting a drink and nobody was stopping her and that since Matt was the visiting outsider he no longer had a say in her life – Keith was impressed with how well she stood her ground and found himself forming a silent respect for her). Allura was the one who trailed, pausing in her steps and casting a curious glance over their way when Shiro didn’t move to follow them. She raised a delicate eyebrow, something dancing in her eyes that he couldn’t quite read.

“You not joining us?”

“No,” Shiro responded easily, only a touch of guilt at declining in his voice. “I’m going to head back early, I’m afraid.”

“Big plans?”

“Something like that.”

Allura chuckled and raised a hand in farewell before grabbing her instrument to wheel back to her car. Shiro watched her for a brief moment before he turned to pick his own case up, hoisting it on his back and resting the straps squarely on his shoulders. He made to grab his satchel but Keith was already on it, gripping to it almost desperately. Shiro was already lugging a giant instrument around, it was the least he could do to carry the rest.

“I’ve got it,” he promised fervently, earning a soft and thankful smile from Shiro in response. Perhaps if he didn’t cause too much fuss he would be allowed to walk Shiro home, if only to snatch a few minutes together without the others. They’d had so little time together in recent times, so little to chance to see each other in person or have meaningful conversation that he just really, really wanted to draw it out for as long as possible.

By the time they’d locked the hall up the rain had stopped falling, leaving the night air crisp and fresh. Keith kicked at the odd puddle as they walked, watching the street lights catch the splashes and making the floor glisten. Conversation was sparse yet easy, the silence between them more familiar and comfortable than anticipated. There was nothing to say and so they didn’t say it, not right then. There were hundreds of things Keith wanted to say to him, but they could wait. What was the point in rushing them?

At no point did Shiro seem to suggest he leave, either. He never stalled at a crossroads, silently pushing for them to go their separate ways. It was only when they reached the base of Shiro’s apartments that they paused, but neither made a move for the satchel to be passed between them. Keith clung to it earnestly, as if it was his key to unlocking more time with the other. If he didn’t hand it over Shiro couldn’t leave him for the night. Keith didn’t much fancy going back to his flat alone, not after the lovely evening he’d had. After being shown such close camaraderie the empty spaces in his own four walls would just be louder and harsher than usual.

Shiro let out a small breath and glanced up to the sky, searching the few stars visible through the dim city lighting as if they held the answers to his innumerable questions. Keith took the time to study his profile, falling on to that sharply defined jaw once more. Elegant and regal and, if he dared to think it, perfect for nipping.

Not that he would indulge that train of thought for long.

The silence drew on and the ease and comfort in it distorted, leaving the lack of words palpable and not altogether pleasant. Keith opened his mouth and made to raise the satchel in surrender, though halted halfway when Shiro’s hand came to meet him and overshot, landing on top of his own and squeezing.

“Sorry,” the older male breathed, a hint of nerves in his eyes. Keith flashed him a curious smile, as if unsure as to what he was apologising for in response. “I just, I don’t know how to..”

“Yes?” Keith took an unconscious step closer, excitement fluttering low in his chest. He didn’t care what was coming, but if it was making Shiro nervous like this he could only hope it would be a good thing.

“Would you.. Would you like to stay the night? I know you don’t live all that far away, but it’s late and dark and I don’t want you to—”

Keith interrupted him, a finger raised and pressed against his lips. He could feel Shiro’s mouth tremble into a quirked and shy smile, and Keith made sure his own was firmer and more certain, just to reiterate that everything was fine between them.

“I would love to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid it won't be a weekly update this time as I'm moving back to the UK to start my postgraduate degree this weekend, but I aim to have it up by the week after.
> 
> On a note, however, I was wondering what you guys would like to see. Overarching plot-wise this is planned out, but if there are any smaller ideas or prompts anyone has, I'd love to try filling them in! I can either work them into the main story or maybe do a few oneshots separately.   
> (Also is smut a thing people would like to see in this, or in a separate fic, or not at all? It's not a strong point of mine at all but practice makes perfect and all that!)
> 
> Thank you again for all the support, and I'll endeavour not to keep you guys waiting for too long for the next chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to come scream at me about Voltron feels, I'm available on tumblr @Kingsandthieves.


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